Wren song and power saws. At the base of the firethorn, the small, umbrella-shaped sex organs of a saprobic fungus cluster in the rain.
On a clear, still morning, the wren sounds especially bell-like. A second-floor window opens. I pull my hat-brim down against the sun.
Three sparrows cling to the suet feeder, spooking at the sound of a dove’s wings. A wren pours out his liquid call from a neighboring roof.
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.
Up at 4:15, I go out into the already light garden. A wren sings from the ash. Excited cries of children, who must be setting off on a trip.
The garden is alive with wrens: four fat fledglings begging as their parents hop about, combing every leaf for morsels, but pausing to sing.
Cool and clear. Orange firethorn berries glow in the sun. Soon to leave this autumn for another, I hear a wistful note in the wren’s song.
Overcast and cold. From over the eastern wall, raspberry runners grope for new earth. From over the western wall, the long burble of a wren.
Cardigan weather still. Cigarette smoke wafts over from the adjacent garden. Blackbird and wren trade cheerful riffs.
Unexpected sunshine. A wren burbles. At the school for developmentally disabled children a half black away, someone bangs on a drum kit.