Clear and cold. A contrail feathers in several directions. The dog makes a half-hearted run at a wood pigeon, who takes a half-hearted hop.
The usual parade of jets overhead. On the brown lawn, my partner is painting her climate strike sign green and blue.
Sunny and cool, with the only contrails for clouds. Four goldfinches glimpsed out of the corner of my eye look like leaves gusting overhead.
Cool and very clear. Even the jet thundering overhead looks porcelain. A small wasp is examining the undersides of the mock orange leaves.
A neighbor to the east is talking about his test scores. A neighbor to the west rips down an old fence. Overhead, jets hidden by the clouds.
Contrails spread into mare’s tails; every cloud in the sky is man-made. And there goes a red helicopter straight out of a children’s book.
The fluttery way a Cooper’s hawk flies, skimming the treetops. Later, a jet goes the same way, its contrail just the briefest I and I.
A gray squirrel runs along the gray road bearing a freshly dug-up walnut. High in the blue, a jet’s contrail is short enough to be a tail.
Cloudy and cool. Raised voices over the wall—”You always undercut me!” “You don’t even love me!”—drowned out by a jet on its final descent.
A huge contrail X moves slowly toward the south. The dog sleeps in a patch of sun, deaf to a magpie scolding from the wall.