Rosy-fingered dawn

If there's one thing I try to avoid, it is the Dawn. 

When I rearranged my teaching life I was keen to swap early morning commutes for evening classes. I simply am not a morning person.

So when something is important enough to get me up early, the dawn seems like a foreign country to me. 

Saturday morning, I was travelling to the Saatchi gallery where Perran had bought us tickets for the Tutankhamun.

The footpath to the train station was deserted.  Silence.  A huge grey heron flapped noiselessly over my head. Some chickens murmured nervously behind a garden fence.  And when a black crow took off just in front of me, I could hear the taffeta rustle of its black wings.

But then came the best of all. As I turned onto the road beside the old prison, the trees blazed with golden leaves and a little robin was perched on the railings. As I drew closer though the bird grew less familiar. I was expecting to see a red breast but instead the whole bird was a sooty black. As I neared, it turned and fluttered to a nearby tree and its tail flashed orange. 

I was looking at a black redstart,  an uncommon sight in the South East. 

If I had set out later, would I even have noticed the redstart in all the bustle? Would it already have fled to somewhere quieter?

Maybe I do like dawn after all.