Yesterday my telephone line went down and with it access to the internet. Relieved of blogging duties, I was at a loss, until a phone call announced its restoration earlier than promised. The birds began to sing.
And, in reality, I see and hear the starlings back in the Grove, a tree full of them, the air full of their fluting calls. And in the middle of them in the same tree, the boss, Mr Crow, looking smug.
Gossamer in the hedgerows, intricate silver nets. From the branch of a tree, one fine thread extends in a gentle downward and then upward curve and ends floating in mid air. I examine it closely and guess that the parabola, which it describes, dips because of moisture - dew or frost - which has weighed it down in the centre.