After a few seconds had passed, Pinocchio said tsree and flew off, its wings leaving a breeze on my forehead.
Zee zee said the goldcrest, which can be translated as ‘here here’. Tsrree!, the treecreeper zealously agreed, dropping down like a leaf. Tsrree tsrree, the tits joined in a similar dialect, nodding their heads. Somewhere to the side, a nuthatch started to mock them. The single kik of the great spotted woodpecker mixed with the eager chit chit of the willow tit and marsh tit. Within a minute, floating right above me in the crowns of the pines and spruces, and even all around in the hornbeams and hazels, was a cloud of sounds and movement. Movement, because it was difficult to spot anything straight away. Waving. Jumping. Short bursts of flight. Something you could notice even in the remains of the nettles or reeds and on the ground. I was standing in the middle of a mob of birds, though I can’t fly.
In the winter, the birds of the trees (a term for which is definitely lacking in natural sciences) group into flocks and forage in the area, looking for food. They are like an organism that penetrates every corner of the biochore (in this case, the forest) with each of its tentacles. If a goldcrest should find a cluster of butterfly eggs or larvae somewhere, it will call out to its brothers, with the starvelings from other species in tow. Meanwhile, in the forest you hear a wave of zee, tsree and chit. As if
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