A most beautiful day. All the colours of the Highlands. Cloudless. Blue mirror sea.

Wildlife: cuckoo still at it - where does he (she?) get the energy after his (her?) x thousand miles flight north?
From plus thirty degrees into plus five here, this morning.

Pretty little yellow-headed siskin at the bird seed feeder.

Rabbit setting up home under our front garden acacia. Remember as a small boy being taught the gypsy trick of pushing a thorny briar down the hole to find if it was a blind breeder. If it comes back with fur on thorns it is. I put my arm down, catch hold of a squirming baby, take it home warm inside my shirt for a pet. Of course it died. I remember the tears, the reproaches.

Ten centimetre fishes skittering about in the air and across the surface close in on the lochside. Being hunted? Of course. All is not peace and quiet subsea any more than it is up here in our world.

Last evening we watch newborn lambs up on the hillfield at evening play. Jumping stiff-legged, dashing wildly in line astern (who elects himself / herself leader of the gang? 'follow me, kids'), stock still on top of rocky rise; I'm the king of the castle, off again. Unheeding mother ewe munches fresh green grass. Lost all her own joie de vivre after the first visit of the tup (ram to those south of the border). Wonder why? Anyway she has done her job, fulfilled her role: more grist to the human mill. (I do love a joint of roasted lamb.)

Dee's tadpoles may or may not survive. She brought them home from the fast drying puddle where they were rather stupidly spawned. Now our own garden puddle is drying out. Time for the hosepipe.

Yesterday a gentleman upbraided me ('as a writer') for using the 'Delia and I' instead of 'Delia and me'. Funny that. Can't tell you what my English master declared in regards to the latter. Far too elitist for 2012.

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