Starling on snowfields

They have not brought all their children yet. But maybe I should not encourage them. I would find it very hard not to feed the birds.

Even now, I am sitting in the cold garden and I feel dreadfully guilty that the dear pied wagtail won't land for his mealworms. He hovers, goes back to the fence, hovers, back to the fence, to the roof of the conservatory, where he watches me sadly, and then away in disappointment.

I moved the food to the roof of the conservatory, but then he just looks at the place where the food was, in even greater disappointment.

I hear them, the birds, wingbeats, pecking, moving leaves, clumping onto the fence. I hear their companion calls and alarm calls. Begging calls from the one young robin following their parent, and already red-breasted.

I don't think the white lilac has ever been so lovely. The other one is suffering from the encroaching jasmine and the neighbour's trees.

At the back of the garden, I hear the robins. They don't want to be here, near me.