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  • Writer's pictureCrone

Sparkle drops

It's rather lovely seeing life return.


The birds singing are a choral blessing. I stand and look up and try to see them among the bare branches. Two tiny forms hang from twigs, peck something, flutter up to the next perch. Surely they can't be all that is producing this avian symphony? Across the road, crows build nests. Some caw and croak. Some flap between branches bearing twigs in their beaks. Two make a strange call, bob and nod, their tails spread fan-like. Some mating ritual, it must be. A robin flies through the hedge, lands on the path, sees me and decides he has time to peck at his bug, before swiftly returning into the hawthorn.


Honeysuckle vines are bursting into bud, bluebells breaking through the soil in the woods, and something in the village is fragrant and sweet but I can't see where the scent is coming from.


The tracks are noticeably drier. My socks haven't been soaked for a few days at least. The dog pants sometimes, the small increase in heat already warming him thoroughly under his thick, smelly fur.


In the afternoon, the conservatory is warm and bright. The cats sit between the geraniums and wash themselves in the sun. I meditate on the rocking chair in there, listening to birds in the garden and my windchimes tinkling in the breeze.


Really, I'm not sure that I want much to change - I mean, much beyond the natural cycle of the seasons. I know I'm privileged. I know I'm a hermit. But lockdown suits me. I don't need the freedoms that I don't want.

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