Work commenced again this morning on nest number eight. It was started a few days ago, but after much debate was dismantled back to nothing. I’m not sure if one of the other pairs plundered it when the builder wasn’t looking (because neither was I), or whether the materials didn’t meet with Rook Building Standards. But at six o’clock this morning, the early shift arrived and a new foundation was in place. By three this afternoon, it was already looking pretty solid.

(How do I know the early shift arrives at six in the morning? I’ve unobtrusively left the bedroom window open a crack, so I can hear them arrive. My partner won’t notice, because his ears block up overnight, and he never reads my blog.)

The rooks are busy most of the day, apart from an excessive break for an afternoon siesta. Not that they sleep. They eye me with amusement as I gaze up adoringly into the tree. (One day, I’ll regret doing that). Then they’re off again to the stubble field, competing with a huge flock of quarrelling crows for something. I can practically tell them apart at a glance now. The rooks have a greater sense of purpose; they look quietly industrious, with their lovely baldy grey faces. The crows mass about in a state that looks random and noisy. I liken rooks to the people carefully getting in sufficient stores of useful stuff, and making sensible preparations. The crows are the panic-buying toilet roll hoarders.

They are messy, careless builders, my rooks. On my way to the compost heap, I suddenly realised I was ankle deep in discarded or accidentally dropped sticks . Then I noticed a layer of them is starting to resurface the road under the rookery. Hopefully, it will slow down the delivery vans using the Brae as a shortcut.

One other thing I’ve noticed. They are well sorted into pairs now. One messes about with twigs, weaving them into increasingly solid nests. The other watches, argues a bit, does acrobatic twirls and nearly falls off the branch, and acts as quality control. I’ll say no more. The buds are swelling green on the sycamore; spring will come (“as come it will, for a’ that”) and they’ll be hidden from my prying eyes. I’m making the most of rook-watching.