High gusts of wind salted with rain. Three goldfinches cling like limpets to the thistle seed tube feeder as it careens back and forth.
Rain and sun together. A goldfinch gleans seeds stuck to the shit-splattered leaves below the feeder.
On a gray day, the goldfinches’ faces look redder than ever. A dunnock enters the cage with the suet and settles in to eat.
Bright sun has summoned up the most impersonal of howls: a pressure-washer, I think. A blue tit joins the goldfinches on the thistle feeder.
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.
Breezy and cool with slowly fading sunlight. I hear but don’t see the goldfinches. A smoker’s hacking cough.
Five finches methodically pulling thistle seeds through tiny holes like a sewing machine with five needles.
Im so engrossed in watching goldfinches squabble at the tube feeder, I don’t notice that the sun’s come out until they all fly off.
Yet another clear, cool day. A goldfinch sings, almost through his molt. Even the builders’ power saw sounds autumnal.
Sunny and cool, with the only contrails for clouds. Four goldfinches glimpsed out of the corner of my eye look like leaves gusting overhead.