A blackbird probes for worms under the compost dalek, then hops over into the dead grass, gathers a beakful and sets it down again.
The nail gun and its echo. A robin like a magician keeps pulling green caterpillars from the dead grass.
Shirts barely move on the line, sleeves stretched toward the parched earth. A neighbor across the way yells in a language I don’t recognize.
Cloudless and hot. A magpie and a robin sit in different parts of the elder tree, open-eyed but still. The dog moves to the shade.
Hot and humid. A skinny squirrel slinks through the mock orange and elder tree, trailed by the anxious trills of a robin.
Cloudy and cool. Raised voices over the wall—”You always undercut me!” “You don’t even love me!”—drowned out by a jet on its final descent.
The birds are mostly quiet now, breeding over—except for the robins, one of whom is chirping all ’round the suet, trying to summon a parent.