I spot a ladybird among the broad beans - a lone sentinel against the promise of blackfly.
Last night a young blackbird is on our roof, a segment of worm in his beak. Despite the presence of the worm he emits an intermittant clucking noise. It is not the quick, chattering, warning signal which these birds utter when cats or people appear, nor yet the fulsome territorial song you hear at dawn or in the evening, but rather a plaintif announcement of disorientation. We watch as he grows more agitated. Then an answering sound comes from the garden across the road. He perks up hops along the gutter and eventally takes off to land on the telephone wire which extends across the road. Then with a second attempt he makes makes it into the garden opposite. This morning before I am awake enough to look at the clock I hear the clucking sound again.
Another blackbird this time in the vegetable garden where I am watering the beans with a hose. I point the hose upward to reach the more distant beans. The parabola of water falls on the beans and on the bird. The bird hops away from the water though it doesn't complain or fly away when I pursue it with the stream of water.