The rattling whine of a power drill. Under the clothesline draped with raindrops, a robin gleans in the dirt, genuflecting at each new find.
Overcast and damp. A robin on the leg of an upturned burn barrel, looking for worms—behavior familiar from its unrelated New World namesake.
Overcast and cold. A European robin lands on a severed limb-end of the elder and casts a critical eye at the pile of withered branches.
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.