Rain just past, we study the slugs gliding across the patio and decide they must be green-soled slugs. A coal tit lands on the empty feeder.
Back in London after a week away, the garden is full of rain. Then goldfinches bring their yellow to the thistle seed feeder. Then sun.
A few raindrops as my partner assembles a new garden hose. A seed parachute minus its seed circles the patio and flies off.
I sit outside between showers. A rumble of thunder off to the north. An electric saw sinks its teeth into something with a howl.
Rain. Two doves and and a dozen starlings start up from a shed roof and settle on nearby aerials to watch the wood pigeon who routed them.
The new geranium has opened its first two flowers: deep purple trumpets. A bee flies in and swiftly out again, but the rain isn’t as picky.
Chased in by the rain again, I watch from the kitchen as sudden sunlight blazes on wet slate roofs, black clouds behind.
The rain stops. I go outside to read, a builder hammers, and the next-door neighbor steps out for a smoke. Then a raindrop lands on page 43.
5:30 AM. The torrential rain past, tits and sparrows crowd the feeders. The neighbor’s cherry tree sways under the raids of wood pigeons.
Gusts of wind salted with rain. A bumblebee somehow manages to hold steady, hovering in front of a kerria rose, then going to the elder.