birds of a feather

A friend of mine told me once that I should have studied birds. I don’t doubt that he is right. I love birds. I love watching them. It’s something about the way they hop when they’re on the ground, and peck at their food, and sleep with their heads nuzzled in their feathers, and glide so gloriously and free in the air. And then of course, the way they travel in flocks – sort of how I would prefer to travel, always accompanied by friends.

I can’t say I have a favourite bird. I’m fascinated by quite a wide array of them. Of course the stately raven has a special place in my heart for reasons that may or may not be obvious. But long before any associations with a raven, in a successful musical attempt to get me smiling, my mother likened my childhood wailing unto that of a wren... Jenny wren.

Mrs Jenny wren, I have never, never heard
Such a very big voice for such a very tiny bird.
You sit on the post and you sing, and you sing,
You have a very big voice for such a very tiny thing...
Jenny wren

If I had a voice half the size as big as yours
I would never dear sing without shutting all the doors.
Or I would sing very softly for fear they should hear,
And hurry away and put a finger in each ear…
Jenny wren.