asleep, smoke, great tit

High up in the branches of a silver birch this squirrel sleeps, safe from the dogs and children who like to chase it.

I watch as smoke pours urgently from a chimney as though it is looking for something it has lost, and then quickly loses itself.

It makes a haiku:

Smoke from a chimney

Rushes after something lost,

And loses itself.

Head back, I am standing in the middle of the broad central walk of the Grove, and staring up into the top branches of a tree. I feel a bit of a wally as people walk past me; I have my camera in my hand, and I want to photograph a great tit, which I can identify by it sharp, two-tone song "tea-cher, tea-cher", rather than by its appearance. In fact I can barely see it, until I pick up the bird in the view-finder and zoom in, to confirm the distinctive, black band on a yellow breast.