There’s a story here.

I think the feather came first: blown by wind, stuck by rain. Tufted titmouse is my guess from the grey, white and peach. Did it meet the feral cat I’ve seen slink past this very railing?

The annual cicada must have emerged last night when the rain softened packed yard dirt. It chose this spot to pop free from its old skin and try the new one with wings.

I hope the bird can still fly, too.