May 3rd.

I am watching two lovers. The raven couple, always around, twining and intertwining, air acrobats. Their croak is softened, almost musical, but their dance is interrupted, first by a magpie who makes straight for them, quite high for a magpie; and then the very insistent, male kestrel chases them far off, and the magpie is left behind.

I've realised, with a bit of research, which I should have done before, that the kestrels are, in fact, lesser kestrels. The male has no flecks or spots on his ginger brown back, and when his wings are open and I can look down on him from the roof, his wings have a blue-charcoal grey line at the elbow, or wrist? And his tail is the same tone. This would explain why they are so vocal, although not living in a social group.

Marie is at the washing line again; I notice she never hangs out underclothes there. So I’ll never get to see Emile’s underpants, due to this obvious custom. I write this with some relief. Sheets, covers, curtains, jeans and coats flap about in the wind, adding a clapping to the bird performances.