Rook Is Back To Fettle

The dawn is damp and grumpy grey strong fungal odours fill the air. The ground is dark with death decay beneath the beech that's now stripped bare. Its foliage starved of chlorophyll so spectral span is lime to bronze. No life-force flows and all is still. Those beech trees now are skeletons. Their crowns, a scary-hairdo mass and skin, brown scabs that gnarl and spall. All through the wood, a cold stillness. But then there comes the 'caw-caw' call. Rook is back to fettle his nest. With twigs he works his wicker craft. A tug, a tuck, an end to twist he weaves a perfect warp and weft. To finish the job a final touch. Cosy grass rug and moss bedding. A place for love where babies hatch to brood of three by early spring.