A starling flock leaves the big ash tree all at once, their cacophony turned into a hush of wings. The sun comes almost fully out.
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.
Seven starlings fly warbling out of the ash tree. I nudge a long slug with my toe to watch it shrink and retract into an invisible shell.
Bluebird, white-throated sparrow, a starling’s liquid note, and high overhead, a killdeer: the sky must be blue above the fog.
A male starling—a rarity here—lands among the cherry blossoms, iridescent black feathers speckled with white. He gargles musically.