Sun on your face.
Early morning sun is higher now, enough to clear the hill, and the sun is on your face as you dig, and cut, and clear.
The robin’s waiting, hopeful, hungry.
A buzzard soars overhead. Crows caw the chimneys.
A flash of white in the oak: tree creeper climbing.
How extraordinary this is.
The cacophony of bird song.
Buzzard, blackbirds, white of the creeper, unwelcome caw of the crows.
Robin waiting, hungry; face turned to the sun.