Sparrows, in mem and harmonising.

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1. I can't see them, but I can hear the sparrows spatting and quarrelling on the garden wall. We now have a small family flock, with some juveniles who occasionally squat with tucked necks and wide beaks, begging for a feed. Perhaps the parents will try another brood as the summer turns, and the flock will grow.

2. I have occasion to remember our butterfly, Bob, who never flew because one of his wings didn't inflate properly. But in his fortnight, he got on with sunbathing and sitting among flowers and fruit in our kitchen and in the garden.

3. Open mic -- I'm struck by the poems that open the boxes of memory and bundles of experience that people carry with them, sorting and curating the contents so that they can be decoded and understood by others.

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