Barely a breath of wind this morning, but the branches of an alder overhanging the riverbank are shaking. Siskins are feeding on seeds from its small woody cones.
The birds are easily spooked but, as I sit motionless under the tree, they move closer. Soon they are just a few feet away – lively, lithe little finches, black and lime green with mottled streaks on their underside. Marvellously acrobatic, stretching, dangling, twisting this way and that to reach their reward. Never still for a second, endlessly probing with beaks that taper to a point as fine as jewellers’ tweezers, adapted for extracting the tiny woody seeds between the cone scales.
