I open the kitchen door, the coal tit cants its head and looks up, its beak full of fluff. Cat hair and old leaves to line its nest with; an odd symbiotic moment.
The ginger cat, seeing the door open from his vantage point on the sofa, squeezes his eyes shut as he yawns, front paws stretching out. He jumps down from the cushion and saunters outside, brushing up against the chair and table legs, the cornered plant pots, leaving scent and hairs behind. The coal tit has already flown away but sits on an overlooking balcony, keeping a small obsidian eye on the patio. They watch each other for their next opportunity.