Clear and cold. A contrail feathers in several directions. The dog makes a half-hearted run at a wood pigeon, who takes a half-hearted hop.
Bright sun illuminates the fading elder leaves, bejewels the rain-soaked grass, polishes the fresh dog turd.
The clouds thin. My partner attempts to do yoga with me and the dog staring at her. More and more goldfinches crowd onto the thistle feeder.
Cold drizzle. The germ of a sneeze takes up residence in my left nostril. I watch the dog watching a pigeon watching a sparrow eating seeds.
During a break in the rain, flies find the dog’s latest offerings. A damp-looking mouse creeps along the base of the wall.
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.