It's going to rain. It's fallen silent out there, and the Barbie Girl blackbird is holding court, it's twurglings and chippings sounding very close by.
Two fresh new cats have been playing Pounce in the yard and I've had to cover up a plant pot that they assumed was a litter tray. I don't mind them passing through though, along with the fat squirrel and a stray sparrow that has lost all its friends in the missing sparrow mystery.
The white sky is slowly clouding over with skeins of brooding grey; a distant blackbird sings a different song, telling the neighbourhood where its territory lies.
Also in the distance, buses squeeze their way down impossible streets choked with parked cars, their diesel roars of anguished impatience echoing across the back gardens.
The birds dread the downpours that soak the spring out of our anticipation. It's as though they are uttering their very last words, clear and precise: prophets of doom on a Thursday afternoon.