For twelve months now the Jackdaw has flown, no longer the fledgling that he once was. Riding the high air currents, descending low to roost, his perspective always tinged by his north west habitat. Appreciative always of those cousins who have observed his flight. Those who accidentally entered his territory, and then left. Those who consciously decided to nest in the same tree as he. The migrants and the indigenous ones. The silent trackers and the communicative callers. The Jackdaw appreciates and acknowledges them all. In the dark of dusk he wonders what the future will hold, how he can adapt to an environment that is irrevocably changing. Come the first blaze of dawn he forgets all of this, and takes once again instinctively to the sky.