The dog lies panting in the sun in her fur coat. When a pigeon lands on the scorched grass, she rushes at it, then pees where it had sat.
Overcast and cool. I lean out over the grass to cut my hair: a rain of white tufts. The aging terrier trots out and begins to eat them.
A mouse climbs the wall behind me and disappears into the neighbors’ garden. The lonely dog at the end of the block barks on and on.
My wife observes that it’s a morning for wrens and not for sparrows. A new pile of dogshit has acquired an entourage of green bottle flies.
The resident terrier braves the rain to charge at a pigeon. A bus stopping in the next street makes a sound like a sigh.
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.
From a garden across the way, the desolate barks of a dog locked outside. A breeze showers the table with firethorn blossoms.
Cold wind. A white-throated sparrow sings its plaintive, quavering song and falls silent. I sit in the reek of dogshit from my boot.
Overcast. I apologize to the flies still gathering where the dog poo had lain, missing their breakfast. A wood pigeon watches from the roof.
Cloudless and hot. A magpie and a robin sit in different parts of the elder tree, open-eyed but still. The dog moves to the shade.