Blackbirds singing in the rain
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Version 0 of 1. Only blackbirds sang: defiant, enchanting; blackbirds weathered the storm through song. From inside huge, green skirts of horse chestnut trees; from hedges where emerging sycamore leaves turned the colour of meat cuts on a butcher's counter; from the hopelessly pretty flowering cherries shredding into many weddings' worth of pink confetti – the blackbirds sang. Theirs was a song filled with confidence and daring, as if the wind and rain which silenced other birds had suddenly opened a space for an exclusively blackbird performance. Often, it seems to me, blackbirds will sing powerfully and then become listless, desultory, until they begin to chide and complain as if they're disappointed – disappointed in the day, the world. Not today. Night had seen an ogreish wind come kicking down the lanes, mauling through trees, cracking branches, dragging a mire of sloshing rain with it. Rain on rain. In the morning it was still stair-rodding down. Puddles on paths – where butterflies basked and bumblebees careered just days ago – joined together into muddy streams. Rippling waves pulsed down lanes, swilling over stick-clogged drains. Two magpies, joyless, and several jackdaws trudged around sheep feeders and a few wood pigeons hurried for cover. The west was wiped out by grey mist, the sky wringing rags. Splashing through puddles which would certainly become a flood somewhere was delicious. "Vile" was how many described the weather, as if we, like the blackbirds, relished our complaining so much that our noises of bitter disappointment with the world became a sort of backhanded compliment to it. But through all this, only blackbirds sang: with power and passion; a clarity which cut through the weather like the voice of a loved one in a crowded room. |