A Good Year

I had always thought of Blackbirds as being common birds, birds that were always around the garden, the parks and the roads, but then I moved here, and suddenly they were rare.  There was an emptiness without them, not just on the land and in the sky, but also in the energy of the air: a gap where there should be a tin whistle melody.   Winters would see an influx of them if the rest of the country had bad weather, but they would disappear as quickly as they had arrived: like a favourite guest who only had time to stay for a drink instead of the whole party.   But this spring has been different: not just one pair, but several have graced us with their presence.  Two handsome males battle for territory on the front lawn, and to the rear of the barn a female is already feeding youngsters.  Wherever I go along the lanes I see Blackbirds flitting too and fro, or hear them singing loud and clear.  I know that there had been concern, that after this hard winter many birds would suffer come the breeding season, but so far that doesn't seem to be the case here.  Perhaps the birds sense that we are in for a good summer, instead of the rain-drenched ones of the last few years.