Overcast. Six pairs of underpants hang on the firethorn—no room on the clothesline. A wood pigeon in the elder tree starts eating leaves.
Overhead, wispy mare’s tails, and on the patio, drifts of feathers where a wood pigeon met its end—undoubtedly the work of a cat.
Sun and wind. A rock dove and a wood pigeon jockey for position under the bird feeder, puffing out their chests and cooing aggressively.
Clouds and sun. A wood pigeon tries to land on the tube feeder and knocks it to the ground, spilling all its sunflower hearts.
A wood pigeon has learned how to eat from the neighbors’ bird feeder by balancing on the adjacent fence, tail fanned out, wings flapping.
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.