Blue sky reflected in pools of rainwater in our seats. A magpie flies out of the elm’s crown with a nasal cry. I’m off to America again.
Sparrows crowd the feeders. On the slate roof of the row housing opposite, a pair of magpies are drinking out of the rain gutter.
The rosebush is tinged with a bit of rose: leaves on a new sprout. Across the way, a mapgie hops to the top step of a ladder and flies off.
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.
The dog lies panting in the sun. A magpie’s rattle draws my gaze to a tree laden with green apples, just 50 feet away in a stranger’s yard.
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.
Bright spots in the clouds disappear as quickly as they appear. Fire siren. A magpie rattles at the wind.
A jet roars overhead en route to Heathrow. The rattling call of a magpie. An American gray squirrel lopes along the top of the back wall.