A dark, dense mass of twigs as big as a grapefruit is wedged into the clematis, a forearm’s reach above the patio window. Seen from below, it’s not a ball, but a bowl, with a round-ended tab protruding from the right side like the handle of a spoon. And the spoon is moving, always moving, with tiny flicks, beating back and forth, back and forth.
I have the unbelievable good fortune to be privy to one of the most private, intimate and dangerous periods in a shy bird’s life. A voyeur through the glass, I’m seeing nothing of this dunnock while she broods but the tip of her tail, so there is no question of disturbance. And she watches us on our exits and entrances through the back door, unbothered by predictable human patterns of behaviour, for here she stays.
