A blackbird probes for worms under the compost dalek, then hops over into the dead grass, gathers a beakful and sets it down again.
Thursday July 26, 2018
The nail gun and its echo. A robin like a magician keeps pulling green caterpillars from the dead grass.
Tuesday July 24, 2018
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.
Monday July 23, 2018
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.
Sunday July 22, 2018
Hot and humid. A skinny squirrel slinks through the mock orange and elder tree, trailed by the anxious trills of a robin.
Friday July 20, 2018
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.
Thursday July 19, 2018
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.