Our scruffy lawn is fizzing with sparrows. For weeks they’ve roamed the garden in gangs, dust-bathing in the raised beds, fossicking and bickering in the untidiest corners. They come to this well-stocked builders’ merchant for its grasses, leaves, moss and feathers – even shreds of twine pulled from the apple espalier ties – to construct and line their loosely woven nests.
Over by the greenhouse, two females are engaged in a tug-of-war over a strand of dead grass. On the patio, a male cocks his head and gives me an appraising stare. House sparrows (unlike many garden bird species) share building duties between the sexes, and this particular male is a connoisseur of fresh grass. He keeps returning to the edge of the lawn to gather soft leaf blades in his bill. They droop down either side of his black bib, giving him the air of a portly gentleman sporting luxurious green whiskers.
