I AM STANDING, motionless, one hand still full of the pungent dry mealworms that I have just been spreading on the windowsill. The first starling is there before I am finished, claws scrabbling on the painted surface, pecking with its sharp yellow dagger, its feathers like petrol in the damp spring morning. This will be my neighbour, its nest only a couple of feet from my window but unseen in the eaves.
In early May you can hear the constant, urgent sound of the hungry chicks. The starling normally lays four or five eggs and the chicks will remain
