Morning-song. The chirping choir, serenade, trill and warble of it all. They raise an hallelujah, a song of praise. The still bare trees show their architecture and reach into the baby-blue. In the distance is the sound of traffic, and somewhere a chainsaw wails, but I shut it out. The snow has gone – ground saturated and lake overflows its banks, but on the woodland slopes, snowdrops show their buds, and catkins dance. Today, being pagan would make absolute sense.