A bit of wildness passed through the neighbourhood yesterday morning. I was tapping away at the computer and making my way through a big bowl of coffee (Illy espresso, hot milk, squirty cream and a sprinkle of cocoa. It was Sunday morning). I heard a distinctive cronking. Hauling up the sash window, I leaned out just in time to see a raven dive through the back gardens, rolling as it went, then climbing and cronking in an exuberant wide curve over Westbury Park. I scrambled up the ladder to the roof, and watched as it was joined by a second raven, and they beat round in another circuit, putting a flight of finches into a fluster as they went.
Then they were gone, and there was just the pink-tinged cirrus of the late dawn, way high up, and closer overhead the businesslike grey clouds, fresh from Africa and scudding north as fast as the breeze would carry them.