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.