The nuthatch came to the birdbath like an old man visiting the seaside. Beak upturned and heavy brow, he measured the angle of the sun. Checked the depth of the water. Tossed a beakful into the air to measure the temp. He waded up to his knees. Stood thoughtfully, then took a quick plunge and a splash. His bath finished, he stepped out. Shoulders hunched. Brow furrowed. I wished for a tiny towel to hand him as he went on his way.