Hazy and still—all the builders seem to be done. A robin lands in the firethorn four feet away and fixes me with a dark, unreadable eye.
The soft, liquid song of a robin. A snail trail glistens at the edge of the step. The neighborhood God-botherer warbles far off-key.
A robin is on a slow inspection tour of the ground. In the next garden, a woman talks to a recorded voice about her income tax.
A blackbird sings then eats; a robin eats then sings—both in the elder with its clusters of berries bending lower and lower as they darken.
The nail gun and its echo. A robin like a magician keeps pulling green caterpillars from the dead grass.
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.
Hot and humid. A skinny squirrel slinks through the mock orange and elder tree, trailed by the anxious trills of a robin.
The birds are mostly quiet now, breeding over—except for the robins, one of whom is chirping all ’round the suet, trying to summon a parent.
Flies buzz in every patch of sun. A morose-looking European robin sits in the shade above the feeders, flicking his tail.