Have a great weekend everyone. Try to crack a smile.
Sunday morning. Palm Sunday morning.
Reading outside in the sun.
Slowly the town awakens, quite some time after the world had awoken.
Blackbirds are nesting in the bushes that border the garden; jackdaws in the tall chimney pots.
All unnoticed by the people returning from the shops with their six packs to greet the sun with, or driving around the estate on their noisy quad bikes.
Flaubert comes to mind: ‘Civilisation is a conspiracy against poetry’.
Maybe I’m getting old. Given to moan a lot.
I had so much that I intended to do today, but in the midst of such busyness and bluster, as Kahlil Gibran put it:
I meant to do my work today but,a brown bird sang in the apple tree..
Kittiwakes Kittiwakes on iron girders, man-made cliff edges to which they return to breed away from the tumult of the North Sea, settling upon this industrial, rusting enclave, still singing of the waves at two in the morning. ©Andrew James Murray
In honour of Dylan’s recently bestowed honour, I thought I’d repost this from the summer just passed.
I’m behind with my Springwatch. So much so that it is now summer. I watched one of the episodes I recorded yesterday, and learned an amazing fact about the nightingale.
This bird, in an attempt to woo a female mate, chooses around 600 notes, and then combines them into about 250 phrases. From these it produces its song, and every time it sings, its song is different every single time.
Think about that: from the combination and variants open to them, every time these birds sing, they never repeat the same song. Each time they come up with something original.
The latest research seems to indicate that females select males on the quality of his song, because the nightingales that sing the best are the best providers of food for chicks. Ready to pull, they clear their throat and give it there all.
Never worked for me on Karaoke night.
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It is that time of year again,
when the still-dark morning
calls me outside,
the sky softly tinged blue
and a flirting breeze,
the heraldic song of the blackbird
lightening the shadows.