It definitely isn’t a chorus. There’s no shared endeavour here or any sense of singing together, despite what we might prefer to believe.

At 5:20 this morning, every bird in the woods is fighting for an aural gap and his chance to shine.

I’m driven out before sunrise by the desire to have the woods to myself. As I set off, thermos in hand, the nightshift are packing it in – I hear some off-hand hoots from the tawny owl – and the dayshift are warming up.  First it’s the blackbirds, robins and wrens, then tits, chiffchaffs and blackcaps.  And all punctuated by the soft grumbles of crows and magpie rattles.

Other than that glorious racket, the woods are blessedly quiet.