General

The blackbird searches for worms in the newly warmed soils of my spring garden. In a few spry glances he checks that the coast is clear, then he goes to work on finding his meal. He is as the most marvellous of clockwork toys, only infinitely better.

General

A female blackbird hops on the newly defrosted grass, her deep brown legs matching the soil below. She has feathers the colour of every tree, of every wisp of wood that promises life to come. There is something in the way she moves, a joy, as she relishes the season change. The air is cool, but she can feel the promise of warmth within.

General

From the hedgerow behind the bus stop I hear a harsh, raspy call. It reminds me of the squeak my old toy lawnmower used to make before my Mom threw it out. It's a bit mechanical and not at all a pretty melody. I'm waiting for a bus that never arrives on time, but me being me, I'm still six minutes early, so I have time to scan for the origin of the noise. Something is fidgeting about in there, the leaves are swaying in the still air as whatever it is makes it's way to the ground. Then I see it. An orange rimmed eye set in a plumage of blackest feather. The blackbird hops out into the morning sun, it's head as iridescent as a puddle of oil. He forages, his orange beak moving leaves and sticks. Time moves at a different pace, the wait that usually feels tedious is over before I know it. The noise of the bus brakes scatters the bird and I turn to board.

By ryanthomas36, October 22, 2014.
General

Jet plumage, beak like polished orange amber, sweet melodious song rising and falling, perched on bough of a beech tree. Swoops to the sweet-smelling rain washed grass to tug up a worm, hops among other birds.

By angela, February 29, 2012.