In the yard a blackbird
works long strands of dead grass loose for a nest. As it tries to fly, one strand yanks the bird back to earth. The bird works its load some more, then lifts itself successfully. Not a foot away a mourning dove looks over the selection of strands available, rejects one stem and another again and again. What - is it waiting for a certain softness? Desire has not yet come to need? Some of us take what we're given, we can't be choosy; what we've got, we tell ourselves, is what we want. Usually we are the happier fellows.
The smell of spring. A greenness now in the grass. The sky is slathered with clouds and patches of blue and clouds. The birds are busy cheeping, the sound of them overpowers the wind, the wind cries uncle.
Enough sun that it glints off the shine of windows in the village.
Perhaps the wind blows from the south. It doesn't blow away the haze hanging out in the country, however. Three geese come across above the road in front of me, they fly wing-tip to wing-tip, headed east, eyes full of sunlight. In the distance, trees and buildings disappear into the greyness.