Overhead, wispy mare’s tails, and on the patio, drifts of feathers where a wood pigeon met its end—undoubtedly the work of a cat.
Breezy and cool. A coal tit pulls a seed from the tube feeder and carries it up to a branch to hammer it open, wedged between her feet.
Watching the ox-eye daisies slowly open, like the sun glimpsed after days of clouds—so predictable and yet such a thrill.
My wife observes that it’s a morning for wrens and not for sparrows. A new pile of dogshit has acquired an entourage of green bottle flies.
Windy. A blackbird sings atop the neighbors’ aerial—his sharp outline against the sky. I watch a dandelion seed head for signs of flight.
From a garden across the way, the desolate barks of a dog locked outside. A breeze showers the table with firethorn blossoms.
Breezy and cool. The yard rings with oriole song. A Cooper’s hawk skims the treetops, wings lit up by the rising sun.
A hen turkey going past the house catches sight of me and freezes. Nervous clucks, then the huge bird taking flight with surprising grace.
Humid and warm—our first truly summer-like day. The wood pewee, who just returned yesterday, drawls his two-note song from the woods’ edge.
Chipmunks chatter alarm up in the woods, and a moment later the squirrels. I remember the terrified bleating I heard at 1:30 in the morning.