halftwo
Wird Batcher
On the escarpment top with its just-cut field the slight breeze lifts the Kestrel and the waft of grass turning to hay, the lower land rolling away beyond. And across the lying stalks gallops a Brown Hare - over this felled forest of grass.
The mew of a Buzzard rises from the wood below. Skylarks are singing in a fresh sky and Swallows on wires sit like crotchets on the stave. A Starling a single minim. A skim of cirrus is brushed over the blue.
A high copse on the edge holds a Redstart -a young bird - flicking its orange tail loosely. It flies down to the low stone wall and watches.
Yellowhammers call and, by the ditch where yellow flag flowers stand tall a Reed bunting sings its four note ditty.
One field is thick with Lapwings, still wary of the Crows that eye their young as they search for smaller victims. On the verge where meadowsweet spill a Mole lies twisted as if surprised by the suddenness of its own death: its shovel feet paused in their dig.
Tortoiseshells fight in the nettle patch and Small skippers sun themselves on clover. A pair of Bullfinches, tubby and gorgeous, undulate to the beeches.
High up Swifts are mobbing a Sparrowhawk as it flaps and glides, searching for a thermal.
But from the cut meadow's edge, still lush with grass and weed, the whip of a Quail's "wet me lips" lashes out into the morning, and all the world seems to stop to listen.
The mew of a Buzzard rises from the wood below. Skylarks are singing in a fresh sky and Swallows on wires sit like crotchets on the stave. A Starling a single minim. A skim of cirrus is brushed over the blue.
A high copse on the edge holds a Redstart -a young bird - flicking its orange tail loosely. It flies down to the low stone wall and watches.
Yellowhammers call and, by the ditch where yellow flag flowers stand tall a Reed bunting sings its four note ditty.
One field is thick with Lapwings, still wary of the Crows that eye their young as they search for smaller victims. On the verge where meadowsweet spill a Mole lies twisted as if surprised by the suddenness of its own death: its shovel feet paused in their dig.
Tortoiseshells fight in the nettle patch and Small skippers sun themselves on clover. A pair of Bullfinches, tubby and gorgeous, undulate to the beeches.
High up Swifts are mobbing a Sparrowhawk as it flaps and glides, searching for a thermal.
But from the cut meadow's edge, still lush with grass and weed, the whip of a Quail's "wet me lips" lashes out into the morning, and all the world seems to stop to listen.
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I don't really go looking for particular species nowadays....just enjoy the outdoors and see what turns up :king:
