feeling breckish.

A continental morning, pine fresh plantation, looking out across a hazy heath with Larks already melting into the shimmer.

A day in the Brecks, so near and yet so different to the wet plains to the west. A Nuthatch was busy bringing flakes of bark to its hole, every minute or so while others announced their presence with great whooping and piercing calls. 

A lighter song, tinsel fine, betrayed the presence of the Firecrest. Tumbling through the coniferous finery, gleaning the branches of the tall Birch, then disappearing into the Holly bushes in the shady understorey.

Across the open heath the larks fell silent. The dribbling and tootling stopped in expectation.

Gos.

A young bird circling casually, emerging from the Sun's glare.

A brief lunge from a Crow didn't disturb the young Goshawk overly, and it carried on, slowly circling, drifting away, presence felt.