once again it’s the blackbird who seems to get the upper hand being the first awake to break silence…… they try their best but they just don’t have the staying power or patience and have to blurt something or other about whatever or other…….. then soon enough the great tit gets busy sawing wood, as they do, incessantly….. at some point the robin trickles in somewhere often quite subtle at first, yes just like a stream streamingly by that you don’t at first notice then suddenly “oh! a stream!”…….. then it’s open season as blue tits sling their glass arrows and a greenfinch or two will vainly strike up their comb-and-paper tunery while the jackdaws, well what can I say, constantly failing to clear their throats over and over and over……..
… then from out of nowhere the wren, ubiquitous as it is and using that as an excuse to be essentially the loudest bird in the garden despite its diminutive size, exploding unseen from the bushes with a mother of all birdsong……. but far less explosive than the sickeningly-named MOAB or ‘mother of all bombs‘…… really? what type of person goes around emblazoning weapons with cartoon-like comic book names as casually as you’d name a pet or an axe you’re about to bury in someone’s head….. and why dignify what is essentially a tool for killing, maiming, mutilating, terrorising and fear-mongering an almost playful moniker?……… the ‘little boy’, the ‘fat man’, the ‘ding-dong’, ‘daisy-cutter’, ‘hellfire’, the ‘penguin’ would you believe, and most disgracefully, ‘the peacekeeper’…. shame on you………. the list goes on……. and there he is, one of my favourite garden birds, the dunnock, fascinating lifestyle with a song like an untutored robin, less a trickle more a trockle….
© robert greig 2017