This afternoon, flights of small birds exploded from the dogwood tree, one after another. With much avian chattering, they would veer and glide across the street to alight in a nearby ponderosa. I kept thinking that the dogwood couldn't possibly hold more birds, but they kept emerging, in groups of three or four, until I'd counted more than three dozen. Then I quit counting. What were all those birds doing in that one tree? Conspiring? Engaging in some sort of feathered-friend orgy? They behaved as though they were drunk. They would flutter about in the pine tree for a few minutes, chirping loudly, then depart eastward. Maybe this is a rest stop on their migration route. If I were to examine the dogwood, maybe I'd find its branches coated with droppings. I don't think I'll go over there.
The afternoon sky was luminous gray, the way it gets when a storm is gathering. This evening there is a freshening breeze, and the mulberry branches are scraping the rain gutter, making it groan. There are now sufficient fallen leaves to make a pleasant skittering sound when sudden gusts drive them across the pavement. To the east, the clouds are not yet fully formed, and a halo surrounds the moon where it glows amid bright haze. That persistent cricket still chirps, undeterred by the air's growing chill. Altogether, it is a perfect October evening. Later, there might be a display of moonlight on clouds. I'd enjoy that.
Also, I have this on good authority: Les poulets n'ont pas de chaises. Though I'm not sure why, I felt that this might be important enough that it ought to be passed on.