Winter Games
Just before noon after a cold wet morning, the sun broke through, lighting the undersides of the towering clouds hung over the mountains, in an otherwise flat grey November sky.
And then they came - tumbling from the clouds - their calls echoing each other ...
Birds From My Kitchen Window ... I rush from window - to window - to window, as birds fly quickly from one feeder to another, chased off one by a Magpie, giving way prudently to the Woodpecker as he flies down from the nearby Poplar; ousted from another by a horde of hungry Starling, flying in from the fields ...
Listening, thinking of nothing, simply living in the sound of the night, the world seems more alive; the dusky green of field and hedge a monochrome greyish-silver in the pale light, the telegraph poles stark black throwing spooky shadows across the fields. A Barn Owl hunting along the edge of the wood - ghostly white. A Curlew calling.
Swifts are frequently flying low over the garden at lightning speed, screaming as they do. It’s a little like being stood on a railway station platform, with a train thundering past every few minutes.
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