The birdsong in the early hours is becoming stronger, louder and more various. I hear birds’ voices that I do not recognise. The blackbirds I certainly do, and I think I recognise the robins and the blue tits but the others – is that a chiff chaff, a thrush? – I don’t know. I let the song fill me, wash over me, contain me. They command the space, the air. In those twilight hours the birds are king, sovereign. He asks me why I think it is getting stronger. I think its about territory, I say, but without really knowing. I don’t think I want to know. I like the mystery of their world, their rites and instincts. They are more in touch with Nature’s flow than we could ever be. I honour them for that. They grow bolder on the ground too. Blackbirds bounce down on the pavements as I walk, just in front of my feet. The robins have always done this. And by the bus station pied wagtails mass along the tarmac. Little flibbertygibbets they spin and slide around like tiny ice skaters, no roller skaters, for it is as if they are on wheels.
