one named Peter, one named Paul

There's a pair of peregrine falcons nesting on a ledge on the hospital across the road from our house: I hear them screaming a lot. (This is a sound hotwired into childhood memories, from exposure to my dad's falcons for approximately the first twenty years of my life). I don't often see the actual birds, but yesterday there were two suspiciously peregrine-shaped avians in the tree opposite our gate. They were dodging behind branches and giving me funny looks, hence the slightly blurry and obscured photos.



(Well, I assume those are peregrine falcons rather than extra-large pigeons in drag. My dad could tell you if they're adult or juvenile, male or female and the state of moult of each, plus quite probably their shoe size and religious persuasion. Me, I just think vaguely, "Look a bit fluffy, don't they?", thus demonstrating that I am not a credit to my upbringing. I attempt to redeem myself by noting, for my papa's benefit, that there are more pics on my Flickr page, from which he may well be able to discern political leanings and social security numbers.)