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IT'S MILDER this morning. The wind has dropped and, as it's a Sunday, the drone of traffic has subsided. Perhaps that's why it seems like spring, the birdsong suddenly seems more noticable. A Song Thrush goes through its eccentric phrases from the top branches of an Ash, overlooking the streamside meadow at the edge of the wood.
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In the village a Blackbird sings flutey phrases from the apex of a garage roof, while Starlings go through their soft throaty warblings in the branches of nearby trees.
Not singing, just perching, in a tree above the stables are four male Yellowhammers, dotted like ripe fruits on the bare branches.