Dreamcatcher with feathers and flying birds

You will think I have finally lost my mind, but the willow hoop your father made still hangs in the apple tree, and the crows have started coming to it. Every morning at half six they land on the star of string and sit there as if waiting for the kettle. I asked Mr Pennick next door whether they were after the feathers, and he said crows only want what they can carry off, which is more than most of us manage.

Your father's three feathers are still on their cords, grey as wet slate now, but the middle one has gone ragged at the tip since the August storm. Last Tuesday I went out with a bowl of scraps and found a dozen small birds lifting off the lawn all at once, a black smudge rising over the greenhouse. Hard to say where they went. Not far, I think. They always come back to the wire fence by the rhubarb.

I have not told the vicar, nor the women at the allotment, that I have started leaving the back gate open at dusk. It seems rude to shut out the company. Last night I sat on the step with a cup of tea gone cold and watched the web catch the last of the light, and one bird stayed on the hoop after the rest had gone, turning its head to look at me as though I owed it a reply.

So I am writing to say that I will come up at Easter and bring the good secateurs, and we can decide together what to do with the hoop. Bring your reading glasses. I suspect the crows want a say.

Love, Edith