11 12 07

A soft day. The southerlies seem to have brought milder weather, with harmless & haphazard smirrs of rain wetting nothing much. Matching that soft weather, I hear the calls of the ravens before I see them – a large silhouette flying across the hill just below my clear sightline attracts my attention & I’m momentarily puzzled when it swoops up as a buzzard. Then the two ravens appear & jink together, above & below the buzzard, sending it clear over the crest of Gobsheallach hill on an updraught of wind & curse. The raven pair then flies over to demonstrate possession of the entire south side of the hill. They might be performing a mating flight, such is their exuberance, wing to wing coasting, stopping short only of the upside down flight I associate with their mating. But I guess it’s too early for that & they are just whooping it up a little after their effortless eviction of the buzzard.

It’s their gentle glottal calls I enjoy the most - the triple hyonk pyonk donk followed by a musical note like striking a dry emptied small log with a heavy stick, a deep xylophonic note, a marimba & mallet. I’m entranced at their flight & their bonded ecolect, their overheard personal conversation.

By the bay, the thin peep & rising inflection of five oystercatchers, like so many whistling kettles, as they rise to settle twenty yards further along the tideline is uncertain quavering soprano to the tenor gargling of a solitary curlew.