In winter, crested tits often visit the feeders in our garden, adding cheerful movement to the snowy branches.

Every morning, marsh tits flitted through the alder swamp, searching for seeds and insects.

At dawn a flock of wren-tits darted through the chaparral, their soft calls echoing among the oak scrub.

He only goes to those clubs for the tits and ass, not for the music.

The antique dealer sold a box of old sugar tits wrapped in cloth, tiny candies that people once used like pacifiers.

At dawn, the sombre tits perched silently on the frost-coated branches, their small bodies blended into the gray morning.

At dusk, the somber tits huddled together beneath the bare branches, their soft calls barely audible over the river.

In the early morning, a flock of yellow tits flitted through the birch trees, their bright plumage catching the sunlight.

Owston's tits foraged energetically among the bamboo, their tiny calls echoing through the morning mist.

The cinereous tits flitted from pine bough to pine bough, their muted plumage blending with the winter sky.