Slam'dunking into the Top Two - three records by Dusky Springfield - 'The look of dove', 'This gull's in dove with you', and 'Sunbird a Preacher dove'

No need to rush. Saturday was for the eager beavers. sunday - a complete misery of a day. So with more placid weather on the forecast, Monday seemed a reasonable bet. Overnight downpours should surely have kept the diminuitive visitor tucked away in the undergrowth, and the prospect of some early morning Sunshine would prompt some activity. A Red Kite sagged low across the silver dawn, chased over the Stretham roundabout by a mob of crows, unseen by the rush hour just metres below. 

The Sun was still struggling to rise above the hedgeline as I arrived and took position on the bank side. A brief chat with the two other birders present, and then the telltale 'tuck-tuck' coming from below a large Crack Willow at the far end of the carr. A fleeting movement, and the bird dashed across the ditch, and hid among the fallen litter of the last strong wind. 

The Sun broke through and cast colour and warmth, and before long, the bird was back in the brambles on the narrow strip of bank seperating the ditch from the dench pond, and then - up into the sunlit branches, orange feet clinging to the lichen covered spray. Working its way up the ditch, constantly calling out its position, we followed it as it soaked up the morning air, as if trying to absorb the very colour of the day.

Dropping down into the shadow again, its washed out body was transformed. It seemed more solid. The subtle contrast was heightened now - bold straw supercilium blazed above sepia eyeline, pale edged wing feathers and rich olive brown tail. Its face had such strong features, with such limited palette - quite different to the blended cheeks of the Chiffchaff, and dark - shadow dark. In its element. 
 

Having struggled in hte past to see Dusky warblers - a two second glimpse of one, and a silhouette flying past after a day freezing at a coastal sewage farm - this encounter could not have been more surprising. For an hour and a half, the tucking fiddler sewed a course up and down the bank, catching small insects and spiders amongst the tangle. 

It sprang up into the drooping branches of the great willow, and preened - stitching the sunlight into its pale breast, before dropping back down, out of sight. Mark arrived soon after, and after a catchup, I left him waiting for the next flurry of movement. The swans across the field clarioned and the fieldfares whined in the breeze. This was the Summer Taiga drawn to the December fen.