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.
High gusts of wind salted with rain. Three goldfinches cling like limpets to the thistle seed tube feeder as it careens back and forth.
It stops drizzling by mid-morning; I dry off a chair to sit. The rose bush, I notice, still has at least 13 buds.
Bright sun illuminates the fading elder leaves, bejewels the rain-soaked grass, polishes the fresh dog turd.
Looking out at the pouring rain and a few sodden birds hunched at the feeders, I catch a whiff of pancakes through the walls.
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.
Raindrops glisten in the grass. A very small shower hits me, and I look up to see a pigeon staring down from the edge of the roof.
Cold drizzle. The germ of a sneeze takes up residence in my left nostril. I watch the dog watching a pigeon watching a sparrow eating seeds.
Drizzle. From the street, the harsh note of a concrete saw chewing through the sidewalk. The small hydrangea keeps turning more deeply red.
Wind-blown mizzle. Clank and rattle at the end of the block as workers disassemble scaffolding, safety-green coats against the gray clouds.