Birds and spires

A liquid autumn morning after heavy rain, the sky in slow-moving layers of blue and grey and shocking silver-gilt. A skein of geese slices over, a flock of double-breasted pigeons all shoulder and chest, seagulls high above like a couple of cynically-raised eyebrows, a pair of magpies clattering about in a pale green-gold lime tree, a shower of shining leaves descending with slow grace to glint on the wet black tarmac below.

More than one spire is visible from this window, and a wide expanse of November sky. And here, too, the jackdaws hurry back to their odd nest site in the chimney pots:

now they're standing protectively at their front doors, because although they used to be in and out of each other's nests now they are on worse terms: the one on the right keeps trying to visit the one on the left, but he is persona non grata (or should that be corvus non gratus?).

The sun is breaking through the clouds and dazzling on wet ground and puddles where the beech leaves lie submerged like coppers thrown into a lucky fountain. The first drafts of the Hippolyta Napier covers have arrived and look great - not to be revealed just yet, though!