The sparrows on the roof of the garage are eating the apples that have fallen there from the tree next door. A little feast of fruit, looking like it has spilled from a basket, tumbled from some baka‘s wheely trolley as she struggles up the hill, some dedo‘s donkey as he tries to get his harvest home.
But no, it is just fruit that has fallen from the tree, on to the roof of the garage, that no one but the sparrows will eat. The presence of fruit on concrete – not in fields, in faraway farms, in foreign orchards – is always surprising to me.
Later, the local half-wild cat will sit amongst the apples catching the last rays of daylight. C has christened him Keksi – meaning Cookies – because of his colouring. Actually, Keksi is a girl; we know this, because she likes to sit on her hindquarters with one rear leg extended high up in the air, like some sort of obscene fat gymnast. But we still call her him.
And tomorrow morning, the sparrows will be back to finish off their feast of apples.