Bird count, but not like this

Walking North (first time in a while), the place is overrun with redwings and wrens.

Tens of wrens.

More wrens than round robins.

Not a goldcrest to be seen, but a couple of tree creepers. And nuthatches were heard.

On the way, I saw a crow with white in its wings,

on my return a jackdaw with white highlights along its finger bones, like a flying skeleton bird.

Not

 I fell asleep again at five, imagined dialogue fading in my mind, ideas to write.

Awoke nearer nine, strident light of a frosty morn oosing through the weave of my dark curtains, gold and silver; pleats of smoked mackerel skin.

Now I close my eyes for meditation's visions, to find an auditorium of folding chairs in a tornado.

Clatter, clatter.