Bright and warm. A squirrel in the lilac drops to the ground for a quick roll, as if scratching an itch. A fat fly moves into the shade.
Cloudless and cool. I wonder idly about the target shooter a couple of miles away, their preferred pronouns. A fly walks the rim of my mug.
A pause in the rain. Under a dripping cedar limb, two filmy-winged winter insects dance side by side, pogoing like airborne punks.
During a break in the rain, flies find the dog’s latest offerings. A damp-looking mouse creeps along the base of the wall.
Within the white ring of she-loves-me, she-loves-me-not, the Fibonacci spirals of yellow florets—a fly’s unlikely carpet.
The continental heat has reached us at last. Goldfinches chatter happily. Flies walk slowly back and forth as if surveying their new domain.
My wife observes that it’s a morning for wrens and not for sparrows. A new pile of dogshit has acquired an entourage of green bottle flies.
Overcast. I apologize to the flies still gathering where the dog poo had lain, missing their breakfast. A wood pigeon watches from the roof.
The dog and her entourage of flies. In the deep shade beside the wall, one clump of myrtle leaves is pure white, like a school of cave fish.
The fallen mock orange petals attract flies, as if they were the corpses of amorphous cherubs. A blue tit fledgling’s squeaky demands.