I’ll let you into a secret: I can’t swim. Which is crazy considering that I live on an island, and that I grew up on an estuary (or Thames Delta, as it’s coming to be known). But here’s another secret: I love the water – or maybe I should say the sea, I love the sea.
Recently me and the angel of my better brain have taken to driving across to the Welsh coast as often as possible and diving in. She swims like a mermaid, you wont be surprised to find out. Me? Not so much. I flounder. I gasp. I bob with the waves and skip-float crablike with every crash of saline. But I still love it.
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Look at these nerds
and of course, our good friend, sitting on the washingline and still managing to avoid a decent photo. I dont think I have ever managed to take a non-blurry picture of a corvid; maybe it’s impossible. Like they refuse to be captured
Night-black; void-black; black as December-seas – crows can be encountered like silhouette cut-outs on a sunny day; you can’t expect them to move, to soar, to have life. They sit sentinel and watching. Maybe that is why this effusive bird has garnered such a dire reputation through the ages, from being the harbinger of death and the herald of war to even having the title ‘carrion’ appended to its name.
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