The daffodils are finally out on Rush Common, and, as of this morning, in our back garden too. The grass has started to grow, and everywhere there are buds: red feathers like little anemones on our Japanese acer, tiny green fairy lights on the blackthorn by the High Road, and fat, waxy parcels on the magnolia opposite our house.
There are bumblebees about. Waking up is a dangerous business; they are exhausted and need food, fast, and easy weather. I've seen three or four flying about, but two dead, too.
The birds are busy. A heron has taken to visiting the pond in the Nature Garden for frogs, and the great tits continue to scope out our blue tit box, hoping, it seems, that the hole will somehow have become bigger. Clearly the box we bought for them is not so desirably situated.
We hear blackbirds again now, and how lovely it is. I walked down Pentonville Road in King's Cross two nights ago, in a fug and fume of traffic, as a song like silver poured down to me from the wizened sycamore above.