"...and a river of green is sliding unseen beneath the trees,
laughing as it passes through the endless summer making for the seas"
My reminiscences were pleasantly interrupted just then by the sound of that first cuckoo; they were once heard frequently here but, like the Pink Floyd, are less often encountered these days. Sedge warblers were also singing from the bushes. These madcap bundles of energy, having just flown in from Africa, throw their entire being in their urgent, scratchy bebop solos that contain snatches of the songs of all the birds they've ever heard.