It starts with the blackbird.

Next door but one, or two, I can’t see over the fences properly. But I can see the blackbird perched at the top of the flimsy tree, morning after morning and evening after evening. That ever so recognisable ‘I’m a Barbie Girl’ whistle and call.

The blackbird was there every morning over the Spring and into the Summer. As I slowly reacclimatised to being back home, the garden was a solace, and more so by finding company with this little bird and exchanging morning greetings.

On the mornings the air would still crisp, clutching my tea. You’d sing away from your tree, and I’d squint eastwards in the sunrise.

And in the evening, I’d sit on the garden bench, with another cup of tea. This time slowly breathing, smelling the night air meet the grass and welcoming the night in. Feeling the warmth from my rosy cheeks and nose, making a mental note to wear suncream tomorrow, or at least a sun hat. And looking around the garden, seeing what I’ve done, looking what I could do. And all the while, the blackbird sings from their tree, as if it’s greeting the moon itself.

It’s winter now, and the garden is at a stalemate with itself. I haven’t seen the blackbird as much, but there again the blackbird hasn’t seen me tea-in-hand at dawn for a long while either. I’ll keep the feeders topped up and the water clean, and I’ll see you in due time Blackbird.