halftwo
Wird Batcher
Snow-dusted frozen-topped puddles cracking underfoot and hardened mud crunching - the bitter bite of winter beneath the moors. And from an ice blue sky the wind slices an icy knife that bends the birches.
Daggers of icicles hang on the waterfall sides - the teeth of winter. The sun barely above the heather hill making zebra stripes of shadows across the frosty path.
A Bullfinch flies up from a puddle to the trees. Somewhere the cough of a Raven is blown from the moor to fall in a lump.
Across the stream on a sunny slope where molehills push the turf, Fieldfares hop, finding food in unfrozen earth. Lapwings strut, head on to the blow.
And above the shadowed wall in a thorn a Little Owl huddles, fluffed against the biting wind, tight against the trunk. Half-closed eyes watching in its hunched head.
Somewhere the faint, thin calls of tits in hiding whip through the willows and are gone in the blast.
Out on the low horizon the pale sky pales to white: the promise of snow.
Daggers of icicles hang on the waterfall sides - the teeth of winter. The sun barely above the heather hill making zebra stripes of shadows across the frosty path.
A Bullfinch flies up from a puddle to the trees. Somewhere the cough of a Raven is blown from the moor to fall in a lump.
Across the stream on a sunny slope where molehills push the turf, Fieldfares hop, finding food in unfrozen earth. Lapwings strut, head on to the blow.
And above the shadowed wall in a thorn a Little Owl huddles, fluffed against the biting wind, tight against the trunk. Half-closed eyes watching in its hunched head.
Somewhere the faint, thin calls of tits in hiding whip through the willows and are gone in the blast.
Out on the low horizon the pale sky pales to white: the promise of snow.
What a couple of wimps we've become. We're having Santa Ana winds right now (warm winds blowing from inland to coast) so we'll get a thawing out.
