lights, shoots, starling

Winter lights.

.

In the Grove, through bare patches of earth, dusted with rime, premature shoots of daffodils appear diffident, regretful, lit by the sun, which offers no warmth.

.

A fluting call punctuated by squeaks and twitters makes me look up. There on a TV aerial sits a starling in the cold afternoon , solitary and, to judge by the flocks that one often sees at this time of year, looking for company.