I roll out the mat and obediently stand, facing the window where the morning rain can be seen drip-drip-dripping from mouldering leaves and a hole in the gutter. I connect my body with the earth. My eyes, however, watch as the blackbird, steadily working his way through all the tiny red apples on the weeping crab, is joined by a song thrush. The thrush hasn’t been seen for months, and is initially more concerned with preening the rain from his wings and tail, until he assesses there to be no challenge from the blackbird, and tucks in heartily.

Lulled into repetitive, soothing xi-gong type exercises, my body goes into autopilot as I watch a long-tailed tit hacking away at a suet block in the bird feeder. Coal tits and bluetits buzz in and out from the communal vantage point of the crab apple, to feed on seed and fat-balls. A dapper wee collared dove paces up and down beneath, hoovering up the fat-ball crumbs the small birds dislodge and drop.

As I breathe, and stretch, and occasionally forget to do either in precisely the right order, I note that the Michaelmas Daisies are soggy, but still going, and there is plenty of seed still on the crystal-spattered heads of Hemp Agrimony. I note also that to human eyes in search of order it’s a mess. Shall I cut it down, or will the goldfinches be back to harvest more seedy meals? Of course, I’ll leave the mess.

I have watched my neighbour across the road leave her house and drive down the brae, but there is something moving around at the bottom of her garden, among the rhododendrons. Who would be gardening in the pouring rain? Ducking temporarily under the watchful eye of my phone, and thus my yoga teacher, I suspend an impossible balance to look more closely. Identifiable by their creamy backsides, two burgling roe deer are gently browsing their way along the hedge-line, looking for a gap in the fence that they know fine well isn’t there. They are bold, flexible, relaxed and insouciant. They have been doing yoga all their lives.

The impossible balance has not become easier in my brief absence.

The deer dissolve into the flame-red autumn colour of next door’s maple trees. I hold a lunge a little too long while drinking in the full spectrum of colours of this year’s leaves, the brown of the rowan tree, clear yellow of the golden elder, peaches and oranges and tangerines dripping from a cherry tree. There is no wind, but the weight of water pushes tawny leaves from the russet apple tree, revealing huge, perfect apples still to be harvested.

The class moves happily into a movement called the dipping bird. I enjoy this, and execute a fair number of dipping birds with relish, until I spot an obese woodpigeon eyeing me through the glass with cold contempt. I’d like to see him do it, that’s all.

I wonder where the other birds have gone. Have they spotted intruders? Luckily, we are all muted. I would not have liked everyone to hear the expletive I came out with as the roe deer nonchalantly appeared on MY lawn in front of MY crab apple and began to work their way through MY shrub border. I duck again under the camera, and open the window to shout at them. They don’t even look startled, but condescend to lazily squeeze through the hedge into the no-man’s-land that will take them back to the stubble field. I hope they haven’t eaten my kale.

Relaxation time, and I’m back under the radar, feeling suitably stretched and folded like a good sourdough. Wildlife watching is a secret benefit of online classes. I wonder if, when we met in a hall, my yoga teacher realised how much time I spent watching clouds, the wind in the trees and passing seagulls through the high-up windows?