A goldfinch pulls seeds from a steel tube and I remember a dream: the woods are a city, tree buildings busy with the lives of strangers.
Back in London after a week away, the garden is full of rain. Then goldfinches bring their yellow to the thistle seed feeder. Then sun.
High gusts of wind. The ash tree—the only tall tree on the block—rocks and sways. A flock of goldfinches hurtles past.
The continental heat has reached us at last. Goldfinches chatter happily. Flies walk slowly back and forth as if surveying their new domain.
If anything were to happen to the only big tree in this block, we’d know so much less about what the wind is up to, or the goldfinches.