In my room in the roof, the thundering wind sends leaves swirling past the skylight and I’m Dorothy spinning up and up through the middle of the tornado.
I watch a male sparrow deliver a small white feather to the nest box, better than a dozen red roses. The female seems unimpressed, maybe she dreams of reclining on scented rose petals?
Soon the rain beats hard on my roof window and I can hardly hear ‘O Mio Babbino Caro,’ or as I now sing, ‘O Mio Babbino Sparrow.’ Now there are no birds to be seen anywhere. Where have they all gone? I hope they’re tucked up safe in the thorn-thick hedge.