This morning I heard a Skylark his song soaring high in the clear blue sky - below is a passage from someone who can describe it far better than me.
Today through the window-pane I see a lark high up against the grey cloud, and hear his song. I cannot walk about and arrange with the buds and gorse-bloom; how does he know it is the time for him to sing?
Without my book and pencil and observing eye, how does he understand that the hour has come? To sing high in the air, to chase his mate over the low stone wall of the ploughed field, to battle with his high-crested rival, to balance himself on his trembling wings outspread a few yards above the earth and utter that sweet little loving hiss, as it were, of song - oh happy, happy days! So beautiful to watch as if he were my own, and I felt it all!