You don’t ‘see’ the wren, there is just a flicker of brown somewhere at the edge of your vision and you have to go looking for it. This morning it was foraging along the base of the wall, a solid little ball of energy, flashing its tipped up tail as it almost bounces from place to place. Once satisfied that there is nothing more of interest to be found, it flits onto the fence, where it surveys the garden for a few moments before it begins to sing – a surprisingly loud song for so small a body, easily heard from inside the kitchen…and then it is off again, to investigate the tumble of old wooden spars leaning against the base of the compost bins.
Many of the old friends are returned; the ring doves, the long-tailed tits, not one but two wood pigeons, a goldfinch flitting through the branches laden with blossom, when its bright red head markings make it easier to be followed amidst the flourish.
The bullfinches are also returned. They seem no longer interested in the greengage, damson and plum now that the trees are covered in blossom, but it’s still too early and too cold for the cherry tree which is covered in tiny green leaf buds. We have to be philosophical about the bullfinches’ raiding. It is not as though we have been anticipating a grand crop. We have never been able to get at the cherries before the birds.
thekitchensinkbirdwatcher 