The mock orange petals have not so much fallen as blown away. The sky darkens. In the next garden, a wood pigeon hoots like an owl.
Raindrops dangle from the clothesline like diminutive socks. A sudden shower under the mock orange as two gray squirrels race through it.
Hot and humid. A skinny squirrel slinks through the mock orange and elder tree, trailed by the anxious trills of a robin.
The sun shines in my eyes through an eye-shaped opening in the mock orange. I tilt my head and watch the London dust drift through the beam.
A tiny spider sits in a web linking mock orange to clothesline, which runs through the elder tree—she must feel each vibration in the yard.
Seven snails are spending the day disguised as burls on the mock orange. A feral cat sneaks in atop the wall, but the terrier is on patrol.
A cat watches me from the depths of the mock orange tree. The birds are elsewhere, and silent, having begun singing around 4:00 a.m.
The fallen mock orange petals attract flies, as if they were the corpses of amorphous cherubs. A blue tit fledgling’s squeaky demands.
The howl of a workman’s saw: part rage, part ecstasy. On the little cafe table on the patio, another fresh scattering of mock orange petals.
Back to the noise of traffic after a week in the Scottish highlands. An enormous grey pill bug scuttles past the fallen mock orange petals.