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.
The lonely barking dog goes on and on, day after day. A newly opened rose on a bush I think of as ancient, though it’s younger than me.
Overcast and cold. A European robin lands on a severed limb-end of the elder and casts a critical eye at the pile of withered branches.
From a garden across the way, the desolate barks of a dog locked outside. A breeze showers the table with firethorn blossoms.
The severely pruned elder tree has one green limb, hidden from the arborist by a rampant kerria. Its covert blossoms draw a few tiny flies.
5:00 AM in London: sunrise. My body says 1:00. Parakeets go shrieking from their roost in the neighbors’ ash, crossing the gibbous moon.
Breezy and cool. The yard rings with oriole song. A Cooper’s hawk skims the treetops, wings lit up by the rising sun.