SONGBIRD

Every morning I am serenaded by the fluid songs of blackbirds and other birds. I don't know whether they are singing, "This is my patch!" or, "I'm sexy, come and get me!" or even, "Oh what a beautiful morning!" but I rarely see them.

They are usually perched in the pepper trees, whose feathery leaves shift in the slightest movement of air and disguise any fluttering of wings.

They are in bloom at the moment, too, which adds to the density as well as to the perfume - think green pepper sauce without the cream.


But this morning I had passed those birds and ducked under the pepper trees, collecting floral confetti in my hair as I went, and I was on a tree-less stretch of pavement when a wonderful song poured over me.

I looked up and there he was - the tiniest speck on the fence round a tennis court on top of a row of garages - singing fit to burst.
He must be a mature bird to have perfected such a wonderful sound, but how can this minute creature produce such volume?


This was the closest close-up I could get with my small camera - he's clearly not a blackbird - wrong colour and too small - can anyone identify him?

CUCURACHA TOAST

Something was moving across the path this morning, so I stopped. If I stepped on a cockroach I could subsequently walk its eggs into my apartment and, believe me, nobody wants that!
But this one wasn't scuttling - it was travelling slowly along on its back. I looked closer.


It was surrounded by dozens of satellites - a colony of ants was moving it from the car park to the garden - this cucuracha was breakfast. Or to put it another way - toast.

Quite why the ants decided to detach two legs and leave those behind remains a mystery.

A much prettier sight ten minutes later was this flower -

 I think the plant is a variety of palm because the flower looks just like the precursor to the huge bunch of dates that at the moment adorns a tree outside our local bar. 

They aren't the kind of dates you buy in the shops - only the birds eat these, as one fledgling was doing right in front of my feet yesterday. Its parents were yelling, "Danger!" but it was far too intent on pecking at its date to listen - what do parents know anyway?

This little chap, on the other hand, knows exactly where his next meal is coming from. Every morning he flies into the same cafe in Las Galletas, perches on a chair and tweets.

'Un trozo de pan, por favor!'

WATCH THE BIRDIE!

There I was, sitting in one of my favourite cafes with a cafe con leche and a notebook, when who should fly past my face but this little sparrow.
I have seen him outside many times - Bar Haway is his bar and if you have food he will shout at you till you drop him a crumb, preferably of ham - but I have never before been inside when he has flown in.




He looked up at me and chirped.
"Sorry mate," I said, "I haven't got anything for you."
He flew up to the chair-back to check I was telling the truth,
I didn't realize I had captured a photo with his wings spread till I got home, but I am especially pleased with this one.













Then he hopped down to a chair seat and peered through the table legs at the floor by the counter.

Yes, Julia the waitress hadn't forgotten him - there was his usual chunk of bread.

He helped himself to a beak full, quite unconcerned by the comings and goings, and then took off out of the other door.

He's there every year - the same one, presumably nesting in the same place. I asked Julia if he ever brings his family but she said no, it's just him.

One little gorrion with his personal food source.