I stopped my walking to make a quick drawing of the student house on the corner of North Road whose windows are always lit up in the early hours. The bird song around me was deafening. I exaggerate, of course. But it is remarkably loud at that junction of the road. I don’t know why. Some of the birds, probably the blackbirds whistle. Well, it sounds like a whistle. Layers and layers of sounds, never discordant. It is a choir, a choral composition. They call out to each other, marking territory or trying to attract a mate, whatever it is I feel privileged to be a part of it. The drawing, by the way, didn’t work. I’d brought a thick stick of graphite in my almost constant attempt to get beyond my preciousness but it was too clumpy, too awkward a tool for such a small book. Heigh ho. Try again tomorrow.
