Ten thousands of starlings have gathered near the estuary, seen from the motorway, on the borders between England and Scotland. Their number swelled to 50,000 by the arrivals of more escaping RussiaâÂÂs serious cold. The gathering of the clever little birds paints patterns across the sky as they move and circle and dip, as one, changing shape, losing sections only to rejoin.
This is in the sunset and beneath the full moon. The shapes are glorious and pyschedelic, ranging in split moments from a pharoah sat upright to a dolphin swimming. Then a spaceship, then a figure of eight. Anything you want to see will be there if you look for long enough. Certainly a love heart, definitely a face. Humans gather knowing they have met their artist.
Within sight at Gretna, the football club is in shock. The patron gravely ill. The manager departed. The wages delayed or gone for good. The club bottom, detached. They were top for years on end, success upon success. THAT goal which got them to the Premiership proved their undoing.
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