Sweet, murderous robins
by Derek Niemann from Environment | The Guardian on (#16KHT)
Sandy, Bedfordshire My focus was on the stylised gestures that would have been clearly read by the bird on the next branch
A fevered burst of birdsong drew more than one pair of eyes to the branch of a hedgerow tree. Fraught with seasonal urgency, the robin's song was a liquid stream; not a gentle brook, but a gushing beck, some notes thrown high and uncontrollably as if dashed against a rock, others pitched down a waterfall, and all poured out in a tumbling, erratic, attention-seeking rush.
There was a pause. Another robin worked its way down the hedge towards it, then alighted on a near parallel perch about a metre away. The first bird threw out its chest, arched its back so that its head all but touched its shoulders and began to rear up and down in poised sweeps, a series of movements that - in human terms - would not look out of place on a yoga mat.
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