Today I was vaguely out of sorts, things shuffled into the wrong order and lost under bits of other people's feelings.
In the garden it was raining softly, and there were many more green points breaching by the barest of milimeters because they haven't a fig for moods, indefatigable in their assurance that it will some day be spring. I cleared away the hairy straw that was once last year's green points, patting back down a worm or three, excavating a fossilised cat turd from the corner.
I planted three iris which Madame O brought on lunar new year, translucently blue and beautifully veined like fine alien skincare advertisements. There was a bare spot I'd planned for them to go behind the variegated pelagorniums but it is impossibly webbed with dead ivy roots, suckered into everything in great neuronal handsful with a few bits of gravel. So they went where the hole I could dig seemed soft and crumbly like a good cheese scone while the rain white noised soothingly.
I bought a bird feeder yesterday after I'd talked to the discus, and I put it up in the maple today with red hemp string I bought somewhere. The blue tits eyed it from the apple tree like people waiting to cross a six-lane highway to get to Dunkin Donuts. Seeds, said their little black eyes. Stay tuned. It may be a trick.
Eventually there was a neat line of six blue tits and one great tit keeping dry under the forsythia tangle like locals and the cop in a diner, each hammering a corn kernel in his foot. Welcome to The Blue Tit, try the specialty of the house.