Birds are pausing on the windowsill with twigs and bits of straw, so evidently the seasons will change – eventually.
Ira glares and grumbles at every nest-builder he sees. The nerve of those feathered intruders, daring to sit on his windowsill. With the window open an inch or so, he snuffles energetically, not realizing that while he catches the tempting scent of birds, they can scent a cat on the other side of the screen.
Good thing they’re not brave enough to try and tweak his whiskers.