On the allotment, the trees sing with starlings, as if the birds were decorating them, as if it were Christmas. I listen to them click and whistle as I clear a bed to sow seeds. They chatter while I repaint my shed.
They’re famous for murmurating around Brighton pier, said to be one of the best places in the country to watch their heart-stopping displays. Sometimes I join the crowds to watch them shape-shift into the sky, as an orange sun sinks into the sea behind them.
