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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.

One acorn from under the old oak on the ridge, now in my coat pocket, holding my patience for me until spring. The oak dropped about four thousand of them. I don't think it'll miss one.