Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 7pm.

A stout pigeon (out for an evening waddle) cannot bear to share the path with me. He takes flight in respectable disgust -- even his dust grey feathers wheeze their disapproval.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 5.45pm.

This is a tiny bird. She is so light she can land on one of the ragged grassheads (stripped of seeds and bleached by the sun) without it bending.