The ash tree’s canopy is suddenly threadbare. In the garden, one pigeon keeps chasing all the others off seeds he doesn’t have time to eat.
Birds on each feeder and two pigeons on the ground below: the indoor cat watches, rapt, swaying gently as if to a music only she can hear.
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.
Sun and wind. A rock dove and a wood pigeon jockey for position under the bird feeder, puffing out their chests and cooing aggressively.
A shy coal tit furtively pulls a few seeds from the feeder and flies off. A pigeon flutters in to peck at the ground below, bold as brass.
The dog lies panting in the sun in her fur coat. When a pigeon lands on the scorched grass, she rushes at it, then pees where it had sat.
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.
Sparrows crowd in around the small birdfeeder, but only the two dominant ones get to eat—along with a pigeon, showered in spillage below.
The resident terrier braves the rain to charge at a pigeon. A bus stopping in the next street makes a sound like a sigh.