Autumn Blackbirds

It's a sure sign of autumn when male blackbirds retire to the shadows, perch on a half-hidden branch and practise their song for next spring. Well, maybe not practise exactly, but I like to think that's what they're doing. I only noticed about three years ago, while tending my tiny wild area behind the garage, beneath a native hawthorn hedge, (where Buddha sits in contemplation) a male blackbird was quietly whistling to himself. Working there in the half-light of a dull afternoon in November I fancied the song was coming from a distance, until he stopped, and our eyes met, so to speak, through the few remaining leaves. He was little more than four feet away and when he thought my attention was elsewhere he continued his song, so very quietly, but still recognisably, a blackbird song. It was as if he was singing for himself and I was just an accidental beneficiary. In autumn since, I've listened for these private blackbirds and I invariably find one, trying out a few new phrases perhaps, just to see if something works.