A robin sang beside me one recent evening, its song filling the cool, still and darkening air. Why, my friend, do you sing so close to me? Surely you can see me just a few feet away writing in my sketchbook, whilst you sing your presence from atop the trampoline safety net? You have chosen that spot from which to give the garden your song this evening. Your tuneful phrases weave through the other sounds that I notice: the sound of traffic, the rumble of aeroplanes at the airport, dogs barking, the songs of other birds in the neighbourhood, the subdued deep thump, thump of next door's party music and the chattering conversation of friends among friends.
I hardly noticed you at first, but now I am aware of you. Your song was almost too loud and sharp for me to focus upon, but now I welcome you as your presence seems almost incompatible with the man-made sounds of man in the landscape. But then you choose to depart, to leave your perch and head for the top of a nearby tree; and then you are gone. You gave me a moment of peace and otherness that only nature can bring. You leave me a memory that lingers on amongst the other discordent sounds of the evening.