Have they forgotten winter is coming? It’s warm, the sun is out and we can hear them singing behind the leaves. Only two are left. The others are making arrows in the sky pointing south, leaving for more certain sunshine. Poor lone song birds hopping about in the weakening days, wet seeping into their feathers, milky skies. Mushrooms are popping up, sprouting brilliant white and domed like little houses crouching in the jungle. Water shines in the darkening gloom. It’s a time for buttered crumpets and strawberry jam, firesides and thick books, warm socks and curled bodies. Yet, the first birds are waking into song.