Voices of Spring

Because of dire predictions of forthcoming inclement weather - heavy rain, sleet and snow - I ran up the ghyll early this morning before the gentle precipitation turned far heavier. It was a delectable run when all the local bird population was of the same mind as me, to enjoy to the full what was apparently the best part of the day. By 8.30am the air was vibrant with their full blooded music.
Near the early flowering primroses a Blackbird was playing his boxwood flute in a garden by the bridge, a master musician. From its hidden shelter by the streamside a Mallard was quacking ever so softly as if talking in its sleep. A flashing white rump landed on a wall close by and materialized into a handsome Wheatear, one of the first of many summer visitors to grace our upland pastures. Loudest of all were the Curlews whose haunting call notes almost drowned those of the many acrobatic Lapwings and soaring Skylarks. Such a heavenly choir.
On the higher moor towards Yarnbury Grouse were calling their usual "Go back, Go back" but soon beat a hasty retreat when they realised I wasn't going to. Snipe were chipping away in a clump of smashed up reeds by the wall where I turned to take the middle path through sodden fields back towards the village. A pair of Partridge leap-frogged over the wall while Pheasant, poaching seeds around the farm buildings, briefly sported their gaudily painted plumage before clattering away to cover.
I jogged contentedly back down the ghyll with its primrose banks and chattering beck, past fields of new-born lambs, into the gathering gloom that was slowly enveloping the village. I'd 'run the gauntlet of eternity' and been a living part of all the sounds and movement and rhythms of the on-rushing Spring. Vixi, for one hour I had lived - abundantly.