Singing again

Our resident Common Whitethroat is still singing for as much of the day as he can manage. The garden at the house we are house-sitting is filled with his scratchy song.

He’s usually up at the top of a tree, the white patch of feathers at his throat catching the sunlight as he turns his head to proclaim his song:

Sometimes he descends to the garden, and hops amongst the shadows. That doesn’t stop him singing, though:

For now, singing is his life.