Gas, Grass, and Egg

There's something so satisfying here about the yin/yang balance of grass and concrete (or should that be grass and gas?). The concrete has such a textured grey 'thereness', and each blade of grass seems to have its own life and line...And then we have the symbolism of the egg, its delicacy and whiteness. A symbol of fertility, the hatching of the imagination, the making of something that has a life of its own...., as you say, probably robbed by magpies...but then magpies are such beautiful, mythical beasts. I feel as though I'm just scratching the surface...

A kamikaze wood pigeon collided with an upstairs window and ended lifeless on this patch of newly-sown grass. I contemplated making a photographic record but, the day being hot, the priority seemed to be excavating a hole in a flower bed as its final resting place. This small plot is a veritable crucible of life and death. It's pure theatre outside my living room window.

My early mornings have been punctuated recently by the sudden thuds of birds winging into windows. The corpses are sad and beautiful. It's odd that the closest I've felt to wild creatures is to these crash victims, roadkill ( close view of badger and fox) and various things Sam the cat fetches. I've taken snaps, but the photographic record seems prurient ( not the right word, but close enough). We've almost solved the bird-strike problem with bird-silhouettes affixed to the panes.
Whenever it happens I think of the opening of Nabokov's Pale Fire and try to read it again.