Wren song and power saws. At the base of the firethorn, the small, umbrella-shaped sex organs of a saprobic fungus cluster in the rain.
Overcast. Six pairs of underpants hang on the firethorn—no room on the clothesline. A wood pigeon in the elder tree starts eating leaves.
The eddying breeze edits the sound of the carnival a mile away: snippets of drums, singing, sirens. Firethorn berries bend low over my head.
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.