The Bee Eater is one of the most magnificent denizens of the mountain and today she returned to grace us once more.
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This ornithological showboat is a mixture of harlequin and troubadour. Her shimmering plumage of many colours is matched only by her vivacity and aerial grace as she hawks the air like some ayuhauascan fantasy.
Even her song is hardly any less magical; I have likened it before to liquid amber or molten silver dripping into crystal caves. The guidebooks on the other hand say “quilp” but any attempt to confine these vibrant musical notes with tense black marks on a soft white page is an act of phonetic folly.
Until yesterday the had spent her winter deep within Africa escaping the slumber of the torpid bees of the northlands.
This morning however marked a full Gregorian punctuation – the Andalucian heat returned with an explosive intensity.
The innumerable flowers which have been poised like sprinters at the start of an Olympic event have been released. Instantly sensing this floral race, the bees begin to stir deep within the rotten carcasses of ancient trees. A faint but increasing apian buzzing can be heard from within their honeycombed chambers.
The return of the Bee Eater, flowers, and the heat is no coincidence.
In nature, all is perfectly synchronised.
I, for one, am glad to see that she has returned to the mountain, because for me, she is an avian metaphor of freedom and I rejoice in her wildness and pre-raphaelite – post punk sensibilities.
What a gorgeous image, Neil! What a gorgeous turn-of-phrase: “molten silver dripping into crystal caves.” Seriously, like, wow!