The Morning Audience of the Dumbleton Jackdaws

On a frosty morning drive, jackdaws assemble, enjoying the warmth of the rising sun.

The frost had laid its silver spell across the village, every stone and blade of grass glittering in the early sun. My breath rose pale in the cold air as I stepped onto the drive, the crunch beneath my shoes the only sound. Then I saw them. They were already waiting.

Lord Ashfeather of the Chimney Pot stood nearest, tall and stately, his pale eyes bright against the morning light. His black cloak shimmered with a sheen of blue. He gave a single, dignified tilt of the head, as if acknowledging my arrival with the full grace of his office. Beside him, Lady Cinderquill made a soft chuffing sound, the sort she saved only for moments of greeting. Behind them, their grown children, Coalbright and Bluewing, stood neatly together, feathers puffed slightly against the cold.

To the right, perched with keen interest atop the frosted hedge, was Sir Bramblecrest, the bold one. He hopped once, then twice, his eye

A gathering of jackdaws convenes on a frost-covered path, illuminated by the morning sun.

glinting with mischief. Next to him, the ever-watchful Dame Whistlewick, head tilted almost upside down as she inspected my scarf. Farther back, trying very hard to look solemn, were the two juniors, Pip and Tatter, shuffling their feet and failing spectacularly to hide their excitement.

I gave a small bow, as was proper.

“Good morning, Mr Rook,” I said for that was how the Queen once addressed her corvids, and how I now address the Jackdaws in my garden.

“How are you today, being Thursday the twentieth of November?”

A soft ripple passed through the Court.

Lord Ashfeather stepped forward just the tiniest amount. He puffed his chest, lifted his chin, and replied in the only way a jackdaw may; A slow, solemn, perfectly regal tilt of the head. Lady Cinderquill murmured a greeting of her own. Sir Bramblecrest gave a cheeky hop of approval. Dame Whistlewick offered a melodic rattle, proud to be acknowledged. The young ones wiggled in delight before trying, once again, to stand still. For a few breathless moments, I and they stood together in the frosted quiet, the soft gold of the sun rising over Dumbleton, the cold air sparkling around, and the little court of jackdaws gathered like loyal companions for their morning audience.

In that stillness, as their bright eyes watched me with such knowing warmth, I felt it again: That I was not just a passer-by in their world. I was a part of their story, and they were firmly, fondly, forever a part of mine.