A hoarse croak from the silver birches by the garden rough patch. Crow-like, but not entirely like a normal crow.
A minor commotion as the croaker spots me and burst from the branches: a jay. Another commotion: two jays. Rare garden visitors in this neck of the non-woods.
They fly away across the field on awkward, mechanical wings. Jays always give the impression of being unaccomplished fliers: capable, certainly, but nothing to write home about. Something, nevertheless, to write about here.