The great, cream-colored roses glow in the sun, even those beginning to turn brown. Three carrion crows—their nasal cries.
Women’s voices carry from a nearby garden. The resident terrier runs semi-circles around the elder tree, wheezing up at its flowering limbs.
Unexpected sunshine. A wren burbles. At the school for developmentally disabled children a half black away, someone bangs on a drum kit.
Overcast and cold. A wisteria vine, unable to bridge the gap to the next bush, has made a loop and doubled back on itself.
Back to the noise of traffic after a week in the Scottish highlands. An enormous grey pill bug scuttles past the fallen mock orange petals.
A dampness on the ground and in the air. The sky is, as always, unreadable to me with my lifetime of experience reading continental skies.
Off on my honeymoon to Eigg. Back on June 4.
A brick lies in the dirt at the back of the garden, dislodged by the running of cats and foxes along the night-time labyrinth of walls.
From one direction, the whine of a saw. From another, planks being dropped into a pile. A block of terraced housing is never finished.
Somehow I’ve failed to notice till now that the small hydrangea next to the rosebush is also in bloom—one low, slightly absurd flower head.
It’s in the blackbird’s alarm call that one best hears its cousin-ship with the American robin: that tut tut. Which is also so British.