Clouds and sun. A wood pigeon tries to land on the tube feeder and knocks it to the ground, spilling all its sunflower hearts.
Sparrows crowd the feeders. On the slate roof of the row housing opposite, a pair of magpies are drinking out of the rain gutter.
A molting robin with almost no tail zips across the yard and disappears into the elder tree. The sky’s blue skin scored with contrails.
The neighbor’s push mower purrs and wheezes like some asthmatic, prehistoric beast. A moth flees into our garden, careening back and forth.
A wood pigeon has learned how to eat from the neighbors’ bird feeder by balancing on the adjacent fence, tail fanned out, wings flapping.
Cloudy and cool. When the sun comes out, the robin rouses himself to poke in the dirt along the wall, his own breast redder than the bricks.
Bright and breezy. A large dragonfly zips back and forth above the gardens. The rapid chirping of a car alarm from the next street.
The rain is past, but slugs still roam the yard in packs like slow-moving wolves. More cream-colored roses have opened. It’s quiet.
I sit outside between showers. A rumble of thunder off to the north. An electric saw sinks its teeth into something with a howl.
In the blue sky, the downward dog of a moon just past the clothesline. I take my apple core to the compost, a dark chaos too hot for worms.