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.
Three sparrows cling to the suet feeder, spooking at the sound of a dove’s wings. A wren pours out his liquid call from a neighboring roof.
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.
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.
I carry a dry chair into the drenched garden. Elderberries dot the ground and raindrops dot the elder. A sudden shuffle of woodpigeon wings.
A squirrel dangles upside-down beside the bird feeder and lifts the tube to its snout. A wood pigeon flaps in for the spilled millet.
Overcast. I apologize to the flies still gathering where the dog poo had lain, missing their breakfast. A wood pigeon watches from the roof.
The labored wingbeats of a wood pigeon spooked by my turning of a page, two cabbage white butterflies swirling in its wake.