As the old year blew itself out in a succession of gales, it summoned up a “storm cock” to sit in the earth’s rafters and sing. Living up to that old country name, the mistle thrush cast down fluty one-liners from the wind-battered treetops, dispensing a mellifluous answer to the tone-deaf huff and puff.
Within the thrush outside my window, there are two voices and one obsession. At first light, it pierced the glass with its high, clear, far-carrying notes, which might easily have drifted over from the line of limes 200 metres away. But no, settled into the top boughs of the nearest and tallest lime was that creamy front, potato‑printed with dark irregular spots. Slender, curved mandibles gaped wide, matching the singer to the song.
