There seem to be an overkill of ravens croaking high above the fields in this part of Dorset right now.
Has anyone checked the Tower of London lately, to see if the ravens are still there? The story goes that if the Tower’s ravens are lost or fly away, the Crown will fall and Britain with it.
Whereas I used to hear the ravens’ call only up on Bluebell Hill, they’re now lower down, closer to the village although flying high, solitary, in the sky on their way to somewhere.
Their call is so distinctive. Unmistakable.
Swifts have returned to the village square, nesting under the eaves of a house down the road, undisturbed by building work going on.
To see these birds swooping in and out, well, they’re a joy to behold. It’s great to have them back, even just a few of them. It makes a change from the blessed jackdaws, although I suppose everyone has to live somewhere. But preferably not as close to me as this lot have been of late.
The swifts seem to have such fun and they’re so fast. If only their swallow siblings would come back and chatter on the overhead lines outside my house, like they used to.
I love swallows.
Down the lane, the British Isles trees, on the edge of the hedge, still stand, although I can’t check if any other bits have fallen off – other than Wales and the West Country and parts of Scotland and Ireland, which disappeared months ago.
I can’t really see the trees any more because they’re surrounded by a sea of maize.
The British Isles. In a maze. Nature is full of signs and prophecies.
But after the rains and the bad news all around us, it’s so good to see blue skies and green, green grass in amongst the mud.