Blackbirds, have a habit of chopping up an earth worm into bite-size pieces ready to feed to their young, and know how to pack an optimum number of portions into their beaks.
This morning, in a rare confrontation with a mirror, I am alarmed by a red blotch on my cheek. A quick rub and it disappears, as I realize that it must be a splash from the pomegranate I was peeling for breakfast.
A neighbour sweeps blossoms from his magnolia into a pile on the pavement as though they are Autumn leaves.
1 comment:
you are, as football managers sometimes say, "on song"
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