From my garden

 I was lazily watching a lone swallow hunting on the wing in an otherwise empty sky when all of a sudden I noticed that one level up the sky really wasn't so empty.

At first just a few specks, then they gradually drew nearer, a handful in an elegant v-formation performing a graceful ballet across the sky, adjusting the angle, slightly changing their course but always maintaining their positions and careful distance from one another even as the shape changed to line astern and then a u, before at once disintergrating into a melee of birds, swirling like a dust devil as they climbed ever higher on the thermals, higher and higher until they were mere specks again eventually disappearing behind a thin layer of cloud.

Looking up I could see another wave beyond the palm tree and the neighbouring building, masses of them, scores, then hundreds, all thronging together in several distinct layers in two distinct groups, no longer resembling a puny dust devil but eddying, churning and twisting like two mighty tornado columns, each consisting of hundreds, maybe thousands of cranes.

Like the previous flock they too vanished from sight beyond the tallest buildings.

I noticed a straggler and tailed it with my binoculars, relishing the chance to get a closer look at one of the cranes. Then I noticed another, and another and all at once over the other end of the garden another great flock, its members jockeying for positions on the thermals in a swirling dance overhead.

And then they were gone.

It was later in the afternoon now, small groups of swallows and alpine swifts whirled and darted at varying altitudes above me, chasing the no-see-um bugs on which they like to dine, the scimitar shaped swifts higher up, screaming as they soared, the swallows sometimes so low that I felt some might skim the top of my head.

It struck me then that in all the time I'd been sitting on my porch watching the birds, in all the time I'd been pottering around my garden, I had not seen a single aircraft in the sky. Not a one.

There were no big jets lumbering in low on approach to the airport, sometimes so low that I'll swear it sounds like they are planning to land in my bedroom. No hard to spot jets way up high only I and my youngest son could usually make out. No contrails painting patterns up above.

The skies were empty save for a few odd clouds, the birds and the bugs.

In the garden itself there was continuous avian traffic.

Hooded crows made use of the twigs and branches littering the ground after this weekend's freak Middle East cyclone storm, flying back and forth in a constant train with nesting material in their beaks.

Jays hopped from tree to fence and back again, finding quiet perches from which to nosh on their contraband nuts and fruits or rasping at one another across the branches. It seems early in the season to me but one jay seemed to be feeding a fledgling.

Now and again a flock of pigeons wheeled across the sky in a circuit of the buildings before coming to rest again on the same set of rooftops they usually favour.

Up in some dense trees I could hear the cackle, whistles and trills of the annoying invasive mynas, who from time to time zoomed across the garden for no apparent reason or picked a fight with one another.

Bulbuls, sunbirds and warblers filled the air with bubbling exuberant song from their unseen hideouts

Somewhere in one of the neighbouring gardens a white breasted kingfisher let out its distinctive rattling call, answered by its mate perched on a satellite dish on the neighbouring building.

Beyond the garden fence the world was confused. The noise of merry children playing reached me from the park beyond the buildings, children who were not supposed to be gathering in groups even outdoors, but who's parents couldn't or wouldn't keep them away from the playground in this glorious spring sunshine.

Somewhere nextdoor a neighbour was doing renovations, the odd thud or short staccato drill breaking the calm. There was no hum of traffic though, no loud buses or trucks, just the odd car or motorbike, the sound of their engines distinct because they were so few.

I did a little circuit of my yard to inspect the damage from the storm. Lots of snapped twigs, clusters of leaves, some palm tree nuts, a dislodged piece of fencing. The crazed wind had blown the last of the blossoms from the almond tree. A sorry looking bird of paradise flower leaning on the ground, its proud stalk bent. Otherwise all was well.

The peach tree growing on the verge beyond my fence was in full pink spring regalia. New reddish growth of leaves adorned the carob and pomegranate, while the orange and lemon sported white-pink buds, and even a few blossoms. The rose had also started to bloom and the Afghani mulberry had fresh leaves and clusters of long pale green berries that probably won't ripen for another six weeks at least.

From one of the buildings behind my garden I caught a faint whiff of bleach wafting along the breeze, a jarring note amidst the sweet scent of orange blossom and jasmine from the surrounding gardens. Someone had removed the screen and shutters from their window and was hard at work, cleaning for Pesah or disinfecting in case of contagion, they all seem one and the same about now.

Spring in the time of corona.