Someone brought three plastic flamingos to the garden swap today, their long necks wobbling as though they disapproved of the whole idea. They stood propped against the wall, bright and unblinking, while the geraniums and mint pots shuffled politely around them.

I wondered if they missed the lawns they were made for, or if they secretly preferred our jumble of mismatched trades. I nearly asked if they might like to roost in my garden, but thought better of it — I have enough trouble with the real birds who pinch the berries.

After yesterdays thought about writing a haiku about the brambles I wrote this:

Plastic birds leaning,
pink against the geraniums—
still proud in the rain.