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.