zkv87

ZKV87

TURDUS MERULA 

The blackbird on the neighbour’s antiquated TV mast is only about four metres higher up than I am. She sings, trills, gurgles her delight at being alive. So I assume – for why else would she do so, unless trying to attract a mate.

I am busy with Eddie on the lawn. He has been bequeathed a bone, stripped clean of flesh by his father. A veritable osso buco. This is his first experience of bone-chewing. He ignores my encouraging comments. He is totally absorbed.

I try to keep one eye on Eddie, one ear on the blackbird. Our duel of whistling reaches its climax.

The blackbird flies off to a roof thirty metres away, her song just as penetrating as ever. ‘Bloody amateurs,’ she triumphantly proclaims.