I’m sitting in my writing hour.
I face the wall, as recommended by Stephen King (On Writing), but I can see the window. Yesterday, it was light when I woke Mr HB up at seven. It’s dark today at six when I let the cat out. So I think: it’s still dark. It’s Winter.
Then a click clacking starts outside, see-saw cawing, carking and crooking.
It’s the rooks. Flying past the top corner of my window, large black hankies sharp against a grey clouded sky. A group, then another batch, then more. For the first time this year, leaving home for work at daybreak, just like we do. And I know.
It’s getting lighter.
I live somewhere where birds fly past the window all the time.
And then I realise there are fewer of them every year.