Pigeons. Of the flighted birds amongst those least suited to that vocation. They've been trying to neaten my lawn of late, but no good has visited them of it. Not normally known for being two feet in diameter (unless we consider the dodo of course). This individual had met a swift and strangely beautiful end at the beak and claws of a sparrow-hawk. I expect the bones will be removed by fox or cat if I leave them to it.
I had a number of things to do before leaving for work yesterday morning, little things that had begun to build up and nag since, despite advancing dawn, I've not been leaping from the sheets with any urgency for a couple of weeks. During these tasks I was standing at the kitchen sink when a particularly plaintiff look from a sparrow caught my eye. It looked at the empty bird feeder and then at me, and back at the feeder again. Putting out food for the birds had slipped off my list during this spell of laziness. Wearing my dressing gown still, I slipped on some flip-flops and crunched across the spiky frozen grass. All the garden's moisture lay about me, at my feet, leaving none to steal my warmth away.
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