From a garden across the way, the desolate barks of a dog locked outside. A breeze showers the table with firethorn blossoms.
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.
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.