Day 683: The Blood of Seven Penguins

A finch in a bird bath, dunking itself like a biscuit. Up and down. Dunk, dunk. Shake the drops off, dunk again. Each time looking around. Reminded me of Norman Wisdom. Not sure why. Something about that half expectant look. 

There was a lady bird (not a ladybird) drinking all delicate, like she was in a Jane Austen novel. Dunk, sip. Dunk, sip sip. A little choreography of pretty nature. 

A new place to be, and a fabulous welcome to my temporary home... easy, lovely energy from the adult and wonder-eyed gorgeousness from magical trunki-wielding sisters. They pointed out the penguin blood in the bath (but warned me not to drink it when I asked if it should be drunk over ice - a suddenly serious 'it's a bath tablet!'). I was the enchanted receiver of a song about how to be gentle with the cat, and a joyful participant in a Croc-hunt. I was sorry to see them all go, in a way. 

Now the prospect of a night cat and an early morning belly dance at the village hall. Tune in, tune in. It might just happen.