A house sparrow fills up at the suet feeder then immediately regurgitates it for an offspring, who begs with open bill and wings a-tremble.
Up at 4:15, I go out into the already light garden. A wren sings from the ash. Excited cries of children, who must be setting off on a trip.
Gusts of wind salted with rain. A bumblebee somehow manages to hold steady, hovering in front of a kerria rose, then going to the elder.
Windy and cool. A black and white cat appears on the back wall, then drops out of sight. A minute later a grey tabby takes its place.
Windy. A blackbird sings atop the neighbors’ aerial—his sharp outline against the sky. I watch a dandelion seed head for signs of flight.
A neighbor to the east is talking about his test scores. A neighbor to the west rips down an old fence. Overhead, jets hidden by the clouds.
The garden is alive with wrens: four fat fledglings begging as their parents hop about, combing every leaf for morsels, but pausing to sing.
If anything were to happen to the only big tree in this block, we’d know so much less about what the wind is up to, or the goldfinches.
Contrails spread into mare’s tails; every cloud in the sky is man-made. And there goes a red helicopter straight out of a children’s book.
A trio of great tits foraging in the shrubbery. A bumblebee flies over, drawing my eye to the swifts circling high against the clouds.