One of the first signs that I look for, while impatiently waiting for winter to pack up and push off, as a hint that spring is almost upon us, is the blackbird starting to sing. Birds, in general only sing in the spring, it’s part of the mating ritual. I suppose it’s a bit like wearing really expensive trainers (of a well known brand that needs no promotion from me – although if they would like to try to bribe me to mention them I’m happy to consider their offers, ditto jeans, etc.) or having your hair long, or short, or cut off except for a stripe over the middle. Just because not all humans make good singers, doesn’t mean we need to feel left out. In this connection, we could mention Sweet Sixteen in Putting On The Style by Lonnie Donegan who only went to church to see (and be seen by) the boys. You get the picture, I’m sure.
Birds call, of course, all year round and bird calls are a much more useful means of identification than the transitory birdsong.
Our blackbird found the TV aerial a week or so ago and has staked his claim to it as the place to be heard from. From this height, he has a clear view west and can watch the sun and set his watch by it’s setting. Dusk is his time. The robin has been whimpering on all day and as the twilight gathers he falls silent.