Each spring, round about the same time, I open my ears in the hope of hearing the call of the curlew. Their long burbling call rippling over the barren moorland landcape is no longer there, I forget I’m a townie now.
My gaze strays out of the kitchen window towards the rose climbing over the fence. There I can see the stems bouncing as the wren hops about the ladder of thorny branches, gorging on plump green fly. Miniature perfection in warm brown, instantly recognizable by it’s neat, smart, form.
At the end of the garden from the safety of the whippy vines, the dapper tits noisily shout their territory. Careful, don’t be tempted to invite your mate to build there. If you do it’ll be a short story of brinkmanship, cats mounting patient around the clock watch, only ’til the moment your babies add up to a scant mouthful.
The congested satisfied cooing of pigeons, spring is in the air.