The only birdsong in the garden this morning is that of my resident robin, singing from his concealed song perch in the heart of the bay tree by the kitchen door. Murmured through a closed bill, his winter sub-song is a wispy, wistful echo of his rich spring song.
As the final notes dissipate on the breeze he drops down to the flower border and begins to turn over the leaf litter, probing for invertebrates in the damp soil below. Once I have topped up the feeders with seed and fat pellets, I whistle to the robin.
He immediately flies up to perch on the antique spade handle that is stuck in the ground next to the bird table. In the murky half-light his chest glows the same orange-red as the berries that cling to the leafless branches of my rowan tree. He cocks his head and fixes me with his beady onyx eyes.
I slowly reach out my hand and offer him a mealworm. He flits over and I feel the delicate scratch of his toenails as he alights, featherweight in my palm. As he swallows the mealworm another robin lands on top of the bird table.
Ever vigilant, he immediately flies up to confront the intruder, volleying a “ticking” territorial warning call. His breath curls in the frosty air like steam from a whistling kettle.
Sizing up the intruder, he hops along the ridge of the roof towards the second robin, which shuffles his feet and flexes his wings, but stands his ground. The two birds square up to each other, simultaneously dipping their bodies and flicking their fanned tails like Regency gentlemen bowing before a duel.
My resident robin surges forward, thwacking the intruder with his wing and bowling him off his feet. The challenger retaliates, stabbing at his head with a glossy, rapier bill, but he parries the attack.
Blows rain down. Beating their wings the two birds flutter face to face, kicking up their legs and striking at each other in mid air. Then, with their toes interlocked, they tumble towards the ground.
