Morning hours.
Los Angeles, Saturday 6am. Sky is blue, grey, light orange. My writing table, aka dining table, look toward the balcony. Potted plants, white rail, then two large strong trees. Partial leaves. They trim them down to the bare in winter. In Spring it grows with fresh. In Summer, the most deep green, thick, glowing with energy. Plume of foliage packs the frame. I reach and touch. There is an owner. A squirrel. He visits us daily onto the balcony and digs through my plants. A feisty one, loves one cactus, not others. Then there is the pair of doves every now and then. They like to flap and sit together on different branches. My cats love to watch them. Of course, the humming bird that zips by, but you wonder if you saw anything. Finally, there is a small, chirping bird that comes by every spring. It sits right in the middle of the tree, on a branch, that looks staged, made for it to parch. It is a chirper. Oh does it chirp, into my living room, talking to my cats. It comes everyday, for weeks, until early Summer. She is my favorite.
It should be back soon.