Cloudy and cool. The garden is full of the silence of a cat stealing across the shed’s corrugated roof. At last, a blue tit chatters alarm.
Slow clouds; bright sun. The distant chirping of a car alarm reminds me how much I miss the sounds of crickets and katydids.
A robin is on a slow inspection tour of the ground. In the next garden, a woman talks to a recorded voice about her income tax.
A squirrel dangles upside-down beside the bird feeder and lifts the tube to its snout. A wood pigeon flaps in for the spilled millet.
English in the next yard, Portuguese beyond—languages given away by cadence and intonation alone, just as we recognize sparrow or wren.
A coal tit lands at the feeder and I do a double-take—so much like a chickadee! Then in the next garden, a gray squirrel’s querulous alarm.
Rain. The pleasing randomness of which leaves will nod next—as if any crowd could have members so utterly uninfluenced by those around them.
Overcast. I apologize to the flies still gathering where the dog poo had lain, missing their breakfast. A wood pigeon watches from the roof.
The blue tits depart one by one. Empty now, the elder tree pivots gently in the wind. The sound of a hand saw like something breathing.
After days of raininess but little actual rain, the garden is simultaneously damp and dry. A second tomato has begun to ripen on the stake.