halftwo
Wird Batcher
Over the humped heap of the moors, darkly moody, where Curlews rise in the frosted morning air to display in song, down to the valley out west.
Above the reservoir Siskins and Redpolls compete to fill the day with sound. Spring sprouts in shoots and bursting buds and young leaf fresh unfurled, flag the sun's light low above the hill.
Dark water, cold and still, edges the reservoir. A Common Sandpiper flicks out from the rocky shore and arcs across to land on the far bank, bobbing.
Somewhere on the crag a Peregrine falcon is sitting on her eggs. The old Ravens' nest is in shadow - she is invisible.
A Wheatear from the turf bounds up to the fence post and perches, facing away upslope. But in the wood a small song scratches from beech buds and moves closer. A pair of Pied Flycatchers are foraging amongst the top most twigs. He sings as he searches. Too soon they are gone.
A circle of a Buzzard draws against the blue. A Kestrel, stopped against the ridge, peers upon vole holes below.
The four note flutes of a Mistle Thrush echoes across the stream, fruity and full. Somewhere, a long way off, you think, perhaps, a Cuckoo is calling: so faint and far the hope of one is as real.
Now the male Peregrine detaches himself from the cliff and holds dominion over the land. He circles once, gaining the height he needs and turns to the moor, and with a single rowing of his long wings he sails over the hill and is lost.
Back across the hill two Ravens are hunting. Buzzards quarter the moor and Lapwings attack - tilting and driving as they dive on the raptor. Curlews' song continues under the climbing sun.
The morning's first cloud bubbles as if the song has condensed.
Above the reservoir Siskins and Redpolls compete to fill the day with sound. Spring sprouts in shoots and bursting buds and young leaf fresh unfurled, flag the sun's light low above the hill.
Dark water, cold and still, edges the reservoir. A Common Sandpiper flicks out from the rocky shore and arcs across to land on the far bank, bobbing.
Somewhere on the crag a Peregrine falcon is sitting on her eggs. The old Ravens' nest is in shadow - she is invisible.
A Wheatear from the turf bounds up to the fence post and perches, facing away upslope. But in the wood a small song scratches from beech buds and moves closer. A pair of Pied Flycatchers are foraging amongst the top most twigs. He sings as he searches. Too soon they are gone.
A circle of a Buzzard draws against the blue. A Kestrel, stopped against the ridge, peers upon vole holes below.
The four note flutes of a Mistle Thrush echoes across the stream, fruity and full. Somewhere, a long way off, you think, perhaps, a Cuckoo is calling: so faint and far the hope of one is as real.
Now the male Peregrine detaches himself from the cliff and holds dominion over the land. He circles once, gaining the height he needs and turns to the moor, and with a single rowing of his long wings he sails over the hill and is lost.
Back across the hill two Ravens are hunting. Buzzards quarter the moor and Lapwings attack - tilting and driving as they dive on the raptor. Curlews' song continues under the climbing sun.
The morning's first cloud bubbles as if the song has condensed.
"Somewhere, a long way off, you think, perhaps, a Cuckoo is calling: so faint and far the hope of one is as real."
