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Even the wild birds sense a shift back to the light. Food is scarce, and the trees barren of leaves. They sit perched, hearts singing for the world to hear.

My late afternoon walk, saw me do a loop. Partly because I had a few cards to deliver by hand. A ritual I carry from childhood, of licking stamps and the taste of fish gummed envelope flaps. Modern staionery now has not used this method for some time, and we have gummed stamps so there's nothing to lick.

In shops the range of boxed cards have diminshed, but they still edge in at the aisles whispering 'I am still here'. This is how I see the Solstice. A way marker in a seasonal calender that makes us notice 'I am still here'. The wild birds make it known.

Atop a tree one bird perched singing the most beautiful melody. Almost like a Nightingale or Thrush. Her song is so captivating, it forces me to stop, pause and look up at where she happily settles into this dusk ritual. I record this sound as a reminder of what the natural world, even in parks, or side walks can offer us if we take the time to stop, look up and listen.

Suddenly there is another song that starts to compete with the operatic quality of the bird where I paused. This one is more of a warning, a rythmic guttral sound, harsh, cackling. Then I spot the white tipped tail, the familiar hopping action from branch to branch. It is a Magpie. The alleged thief of all that glitters and shines.

I move my recorder away from the songstress to the Magpie and record the contrast of sound between the two. A blend of alpha crackling and a background sweet melody. Then the bark of a dog, and its owner calling breaks that moment back to reality, so I walk on.

The air is damp, everything looks like it is permanently soaked. Water seeping upwards from the ground to the sky.

I notice a nearby woodland, that has the most beautiful monolith circle of stones is closed off by huge steel gates of mesh. Yet as I get nearer all is revealed that they have been constructing an actual laid path that meanders into the center of the clearing where the stones are.

Wooden edged and fine gravel layers. I wonder if it has changed this woodland from a natural state to a constructed park? One where we used to slip and squelch through muddy paths, the edges squeezing up around the rims of our boots like squashed chocolate brownie mixture. Now a user friendly urban path, that hopefully could see more visitors who otherwise would avoid those wet damp paths, for the hassle of wheels getting caught in mud, and the cleaning involved later.

I can sense the dusk moving toward sunset. It is like a shadow suddenly comes across the path. Similar to a sunny day being cast by clouds. Viewing becomes obscured, limited, closed in. Edges seem to meet my coat. I pull it a little tighter to quicken my pace back home. Passing the walkers of dogs, and those eager to return.

Windows become lanterns, lit from within. Car lights switch to full beam. Christmas lights illuminate doorways and walls. The birds are now silent. Hushed in their lofty nooks. My breath is all I can hear alongside my heartbeat. I turn the key and I'm home.