Considering a Contrast.

Luxuriating in the symphony of birdsong on a still April evening is like taking a spoonful of best heather honey with the coarse porridge of life. It sweetens and deepens the experience, turning the grey one golden until the eyes narrow and a primal glow suffuses the spirit. Or so it is for the modern human with its complex cacophony of cares and unnatural pressures.

It means nothing of the sort to the birds, of course. To them it’s a deadly serious game of territory, courtship and mating. And when that game has been played to the full, the hard work begins – building a nest, feeding the female while she sits the eggs, filling countless ever-open mouths from dawn until dusk: demanding, expectant, entitled, demonstrating the simple, natural pressure of life’s imperative.

I often wonder whether birds are happy. Do they know the difference between sweetened and unsweetened porridge?