These early spring days are marked by bird call: after the all night serenade, the blackbirds take over at about 6.10 am, then a general madness until the sun starts peeping over the parasol pine tree. Mostly silence for a while, then the swallows start up, dipping and swooping, their wheezing cries filling the air.
Sitting here writing now I can hear blue tits, sparrows, possibly a distant thrush and yes, at least one pair of nightingales outdoing everyone else.
Here's a picture courtesy of google images (sorry, not sure who's it is) as I failed to get a good picture of one of these birds. Despite their sparkling song, the plumage is a palette of cream and brown, not wonderful mauves, deep iridescent sea green and vibrant orange as I always like to imagine. They blend into the matted twigs and branches of the hillside behind the house, almost impossible to see, only to hear.