Late morning, and it’s still not fully light—the clouds are too heavy. The sound of rain on the dry leaves like fat sizzling in a fryer.
Clouds slowly vanish in the blue—like my own puffs of breath, but slower. Chickadees; a nuthatch. The forest floor goes from glow to shine.
Another bright-sky morning that slowly turns white. A shy coal tit waits till all the other birds are gone to launch a sortie on the suet.
Dawn. A gull flies sideways below lowering clouds. The silhouette of a small cat appears on the wall behind the neighbor’s bird feeder.
Wind-blown mizzle. Clank and rattle at the end of the block as workers disassemble scaffolding, safety-green coats against the gray clouds.
Two wood pigeons sitting on a chimney pot take flight, circle the gardens, and return to their perch, sheltering under a TV aerial from the fast-flying clouds.
A spliff-shaped cloud drifts past. The rose bush reminds me of the old blues lyric: The way you wear them dresses, the sun keeps shining through…
Overhead, wispy mare’s tails, and on the patio, drifts of feathers where a wood pigeon met its end—undoubtedly the work of a cat.
Sunny and cool, with the only contrails for clouds. Four goldfinches glimpsed out of the corner of my eye look like leaves gusting overhead.
Blue seams open and close in the clouds. I remember the view from the plane, that shining white carpet into which we sank.