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Same oak, same root, same muddy patch on the seat of my waterproof trousers. Forty weeks now of sitting here every Sunday for twenty minutes, counting birdsong. Today: robin, wren, two jackdaws arguing, a buzzard mewing far off, and a thin high song I didn't know until the app named it a goldcrest, which made me unreasonably happy. At the end I intone the awen three times, quietly, because there's a dog walker who already thinks I'm odd. I don't sit to get anything. I sit so the wood gets used to me. I think it's starting to.