If we heard seagulls outside when we were little, we were told it must be rough weather at sea.  I could hear them this morning, I had the window open and the sun was shining, picking out all the dust motes dancing like midges, whilst the plaintive cries of the seagulls reminded me of the seaside.  The gulls follow the canal or the rivers from the sea mouth inland searching for easy food, then they swoop and whirl on the air-currents until they  catch sight of a ploughed field or landfill site alighting in the rough earth to jump and squabble over insects or worms.  This morning there was a light aircraft buzzing around as well, we are not that far from an airfield called Barton Aerodrome, the first municipal airport in the U.K.
   It seems to me a sure sign that we have turned away from Winter when I hear the drone of the small aircraft engine weaving it's way on a lazy spiral just below the clouds. It comes from a memory of lying hidden in the long grass of fields near our house, shading my eyes to watch a biplane drawing lazy circles against the blue summer sky, with the song of a skylark in my nine year old ears and the delightful knowledge there was no school for the rest of the summer.