Robin song fills the cold excited air. Flit, dash, twit, flick, flutter; a winter tit flock passes by, bumbarrels (country-name for long-tailed tits) bounce from twig to twig, dangling like pinkish baubles reflecting the early sunlight and chattering and giggling in high pitched calls from one family member to another.
House sparrows bustle through the brambles, popping up here and there, as if to check where they are, before barging back into the gossip, and rough and tumble of the flock.
Distant, hesitant, I hear the first tuning whistles of the song thrush rehearsing for his role as newly appointed town-cryer come the fickle spring. It is good to hear his voice again.