halftwo
Wird Batcher
Near the top nineteen Golden Plover stride through the low wheat as Brown Hares dust bathe and sun themselves. Lapwings display and squabble and sit on eggs in little hollows and chase the Crows that get too close.
The head of a Little Owl shows above the wall - stone coloured against the stone. Pied Wagtails are building - stuffing crevices with straw and sheep's wool. Twittering Linnets watch. The sun climbs into a powder blue sky. Somewhere in the vastness the distant song of a Skylark falls like ash from the sun.
Curlews rise in song - a sound that bubbles over the moors like the ripple of the heat haze beginning. A Snipe towers on flickering wings - scissors knifing the blue - then he descends in a quickening arc and batters the air with the thrum of his tail's song.
Up again, following the rapier of his long bill, curving above the Mountain Hare galloping in the heather. He zigzags towards the ground and the drumming oscillation hums again and again. He curves around the hilltop and drops past the Swallows' swoop into the valley.
And in the valley a Kestrel, on in-drawn wings, takes a vole downslope to his mate in the trees by the stream. She keens to him, accepts his gift and they mate, still calling.
Above the chapel a Little Owl is perched against the horizon - a weathercock silhouette stamped against the sky. Suddenly it sallies down to the field and struggles briefly with its prey. Somewhere across this little vale a Green Woodpecker yaffles.
In the ash by the river two more Little Owls perch - partridge plump and grey as their tree. A Magpie bothers a Brown Hare stretched out in the meadow, long ears flat against its back.
The circle of the Sparrowhawk rises by the ridge and sends a pair of Tree Sparrows to cover by the pond, but the Moorhen struts in the open unconcerned.
The morning only half done and the butterflies begin to skim and skip on the lush and rounded sound of the Willow Warblers' vowels. The sun shines on.
The head of a Little Owl shows above the wall - stone coloured against the stone. Pied Wagtails are building - stuffing crevices with straw and sheep's wool. Twittering Linnets watch. The sun climbs into a powder blue sky. Somewhere in the vastness the distant song of a Skylark falls like ash from the sun.
Curlews rise in song - a sound that bubbles over the moors like the ripple of the heat haze beginning. A Snipe towers on flickering wings - scissors knifing the blue - then he descends in a quickening arc and batters the air with the thrum of his tail's song.
Up again, following the rapier of his long bill, curving above the Mountain Hare galloping in the heather. He zigzags towards the ground and the drumming oscillation hums again and again. He curves around the hilltop and drops past the Swallows' swoop into the valley.
And in the valley a Kestrel, on in-drawn wings, takes a vole downslope to his mate in the trees by the stream. She keens to him, accepts his gift and they mate, still calling.
Above the chapel a Little Owl is perched against the horizon - a weathercock silhouette stamped against the sky. Suddenly it sallies down to the field and struggles briefly with its prey. Somewhere across this little vale a Green Woodpecker yaffles.
In the ash by the river two more Little Owls perch - partridge plump and grey as their tree. A Magpie bothers a Brown Hare stretched out in the meadow, long ears flat against its back.
The circle of the Sparrowhawk rises by the ridge and sends a pair of Tree Sparrows to cover by the pond, but the Moorhen struts in the open unconcerned.
The morning only half done and the butterflies begin to skim and skip on the lush and rounded sound of the Willow Warblers' vowels. The sun shines on.
