Here comes the summer

And there goes the weather, disappearing over the hill with the last of the passing migrants. In their wake, the poor, shivering unfortunates with nothing but their half-frozen wits and sodden self-pity to keep them alive through the next few months.

On my wire, wet and lonely 

Oft times do I think of thee 

Wet and lonely and I wonder 

Do you ever think of me 

Not much to shout about at Goldcliff this morning: seven Black-tailed Godwits, one Whimbrel and a Dunlin were the only waders that could claim to be on the move; and about 100 Swift either went over NE searching for sunnier skies, or milled about the lagoons waiting in vain for anti-freeze drinking, waterproof flying insects. The Swallows took to picking creeping insects off the creeping thistles and buttercups; the House Martins just sat around looking glum (click on the picture, look at the expression on his little fizzog).

PS. Apologies to Woody Guthrie.