Four coal tits huddled in the elder tree take turns feeding at the suet balls. Two gardens away, a boy sings a taunting song in Portuguese.
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.
Cloudy and cold. From over at the neighbors’, the low rumbling of a large machine and the excited shrieks of children eddy on the wind.