Making extra effort to get out into the fresh January frost this week. This morning, all the birds are crying out in the haze, like they're reasserting their collective territory in the absence of traffic and planes. Seagulls, blackbirds, chickens, sparrows, all casting an aerial net over us.
I think of church bells trying to join in, either in impersonation or in some attempt to dominate the clouds.
The frosted dew is melting faster than yesterday, sending percussion notes falling from the sloped roof of the shed.
Pyracantha berries, guarded by spikes, waiting to be eaten by wood pigeons and blackbirds.
Remnants of frost on the branch cuttings from the tree that was cut down over the road.
Dustings lurking on the uneaten sunflower seeds. A fox has visited the other night. Perhaps the seeds are too low down.
The leftovers of last summer's tomato plants, nearly forgotten about.
The stems of the purple broccolli, a gift from a stranger, don't seem to bear their own weight any more.
When will the broccolli sprout?