can hear her up in the magpie tree, her cry lower, more baby-like: a chatter, a wee warble, the odd excited squawk when she joins in with the magpie orchestra, all their beaks pointed at the sky, throats wobbling. It’s lovely to listen to; hard to know why they suddenly fly, or what they’ll do next; drift down to land on the lawn to pick and stab, or flap across
