Few things more pleasant, in old age or young, than sitting on a hill, on a clear, almost frosty morning, mist filling the valleys, and listening to a butcher bird song notes cascading through the silent air, while your dog sits, quietly, beside you.
Morning has broken Read More »
Cabbage White butterflies seem boring to me. All exactly the same in their looks and behaviour. But I guess they don’t seem like that to each other.
We’re all individuals Read More »
Every day, somewhere in the world, billions of birds sit on their nests, content and confident about the eggs that they cherish.
Great eggspectations Read More »
I hate the sound of a rabbit, at night, screaming in the jaws of a fox. But I can’t hear the fox cubs crying with hunger.
The Choughs are back doing some gardening for me, and the sight of their ungainly walk and their happy family warms the cockles of my cold winter heart.
Once I saw on the ground under trees blue fragments of a small egg. But were they from an egg that fell or one that had hatched? I didn’t know just what I should feel.
Plumes of smoke on a cold Winter’s day bring thoughts of warmth and community and human busyness and achievement. Plumes of smoke on a hot Summer’s day bring thoughts of destruction and terror and loss and anger and failure.
Birds in pairs, galahs, magpies, rosellas, butcher birds, crows, peewits, birds in pairs, thinking of Spring.
The Butcher Bird singing, beautifully, from the old dead tree this morning, doesn’t know about coronavirus.
