A little flock of Starlings was sitting on a wire fence, jamming a lively tune full of whistles and toots, like a small orchestra tuning up, or aliens singing a conversation that only they could understand. And not only were their songs snappy, but they also looked stunning, the sunshine sparkling on the star-like markings of their iridescent plumage.

Wire-dotter, pylon-swarmer, dusk-dancer, aerial-clinger … these are just some of author and poet Rob Cowen’s descriptions of these shimmering birds, the Starlings, in his poem ‘Starling’ from his recently published book The Heeding (Elliott and Johnson, London, 2021). I’m not a great reader of poetry but this work is magical, and includes the stunning illustrations of Nick Hayes – I highly recommend their work.

And Starlings are also magical: musicians that entertain with their broad repertoire of trills and whistles, flutes and warbles; murmuraters that fly en masse with remarkable precision; fashionistas that dazzle with the greens, purples and blues of their iridescent plumage.