Wind-blown mizzle. Clank and rattle at the end of the block as workers disassemble scaffolding, safety-green coats against the gray clouds.
Yet another clear, cool day. A goldfinch sings, almost through his molt. Even the builders’ power saw sounds autumnal.
Clear and cool. Between hammer blows from the nearby builders, a dead mock orange leaf hits the ground with a faint tap.
Back from holiday. A house across the way has sprouted all the impedimenta of a loft conversion: scaffolding, plastic, a roof over the roof.
I sit outside between showers. A rumble of thunder off to the north. An electric saw sinks its teeth into something with a howl.
Sunny with the howl of power saws. Sparrows carry off the suet one beakful at a time. Some sort of heron flies over, long legs trailing behind.
From a construction crew down the block, shouted commands in a language I don’t know interspersed with the universal language of hammers.
The blue tits depart one by one. Empty now, the elder tree pivots gently in the wind. The sound of a hand saw like something breathing.
The howl of a workman’s saw: part rage, part ecstasy. On the little cafe table on the patio, another fresh scattering of mock orange petals.
From one direction, the whine of a saw. From another, planks being dropped into a pile. A block of terraced housing is never finished.