Cool and clear. Orange firethorn berries glow in the sun. Soon to leave this autumn for another, I hear a wistful note in the wren’s song.
Overcast and cold. From over the eastern wall, raspberry runners grope for new earth. From over the western wall, the long burble of a wren.
Cardigan weather still. Cigarette smoke wafts over from the adjacent garden. Blackbird and wren trade cheerful riffs.
Unexpected sunshine. A wren burbles. At the school for developmentally disabled children a half black away, someone bangs on a drum kit.
A wren sings in the garden of our Iranian neighbor, whose wisteria infiltrates the elder tree so that it blooms two ways at once.