Summer landed in our garden one all too rare sunny afternoon in the shape of a beautiful dragonfly, a-top a dried spire of Foxglove confidently resting and letting me considerably closer than I would dared to have hoped. There were actually several DFs whirling under the trees, catching, I assume, on the wing tender insect morsels for light snacks. The fields surrounding our house have been harvested in the last few days and wildlife has sprung in to action. The Pheasents and Partridge have been scuttling across the stubble, pecking and squarking happily, our Hare has been sunning itself on the Drove banks and the Woodpecker has been cackling manically from the shade of the orchard trees. Pigeons, bless their putrid little socks, have been roaming the fields in curious huddles, spreading their cheerly droppings to aid the farmers need for organic matter. Maybe I am too tough on the rural cousins of the city slickers, those leperous mutations that hang out in Trafagar Square, the Nazi grey diseased squadrons that land like aliens to feed on our misplaced generosity, the winged skyrats, the list goes on… but they are just plain nasty. They have little to compare to the love tangled blur that is the pairing of collared Doves that perch a-top our rustically ruined greenhouse, whose cooing so loud it resonates down through the woodframe into the roots of the Walnut tree from there it magnifies out into the foundations of the house and stirs me in the early hours, but am I troubled? no, their Dove-love is so strong it is a moment of great happiness to be woken by their seismic tremblings.
