Saturday, 7 January 2012

Il pleure dans mon coeur

Never in the history of vertebratology, I’ll wager, has a yearlist begun so inauspiciously. For a week now, that’s a whole fifty-tooth of 2012, I have been confined to my house by a throbbing ear. A lesser white-fronted goose delicately nibbles the grazing marshes of the Yare Valley, amid elegant taiga beans. But have I seen them? Nope. A Coues' arctic redpoll daringly dangles from alders at Titchwell, picking at their seeds with its distinctively stubby beak. On my list? Nope. Countless thousands of knot and bar-tailed godwits swirl at the top of the tides in the Wash. And have I seen them? Nope.

Feeling sorry for myself? Perhaps a little.

The ear still throbs and in 2012 I have yet to see a dunnock. I have yet to see a great tit too, though in the inky light of dawn this morning a black and white cat trotted cheerfully through my garden carrying a dead bird, which I thought might be a great tit.

Yes, I’m attempting to identify ornitho-corpses in feline fangs. That it should come to this.

Plus it’s raining.

Il pleure dans mon coeur comme il pleut sur la ville.


  1. That CAT. The same one that carried off the nestling Dunnock last week?

    (...catching up on your delightful blog.)