halftwo
Wird Batcher
Eastward a rainbow drops from a cumulus – the rival sun opposite, low in the pale blue.
On the slope of the long hill a Short-eared owl, pale and ghostly-light floats in display with deeply stroking wings. It approaches another, backlit by sunlight, and the buffy pair sail towards the moor. One lands and stands, yellow eyes staring from long grasses, the other flies a circle above it before heading to the north and away over the horizon. Once gone the earthbound bird takes to the air and, after two or three flaps of its wide wings, glides off to the south.
Not far away where clear blue light meets the green push of the rounded moor and thunder clouds gather on the western flanks – beginning to blacken now below blasted tops – the surrounding songs of Curlews provide the soundtrack. The sun shines on at a slant.
And from the plantation comes the squeal of young Long-eared owls begging for food.
Across the wild hummocked grasses a frog-like call: a Long-eared owl floats towards the trees. In the pine stand – dark ranks where soft needles lie deep enough to silence footfalls – adult owls are feeding full-grown young. Bark-coloured backs blend and hide until movement betrays them. Sleek beauty, ear-tufts raised above brown dapples and ripples.
Soon insistence from hungry young send the adults out to hunt the open land – one quarters the moor, floating silently, listening and following its ears; large-headed, eyes polished amber, shining; jinking at the sound of a vole, turning, perching. Ear-tufts aloft – like the Hare that breaks from cover to gallop away.
The owl glides back to the wood with its prey – and squeals squeeze from trees as the young feed again.
On the horizon lightning flickers against the Payne’s grey of the nimbus: four more strikes, four more owls. Above a pair of Swifts scream and mate on the wing, becoming one four-winged dragonfly against the fading sky. A Curlew crosses the cottage cheese moon.
From the deep valley the long moan of a Tawny owl rises eerily into the evening. A Cuckoo’s call echoes across the heather, in defiance of the dying day.
Back down along the lanes as the colours drain, the thunder cloud gives a further flash, the huge nimbus now hides the nearly-set sun.
Across the track a Little owl flickers from wall to wire to perch, squat and small. The final songs of the day strike out into the night: Song thrush and Wren.
Sheep bleat in darkening fields – white in the fading light. Atop a hawthorn amongst the flock another Little owl hunches – stock still.
A Tawny owl’s note howls from the gloom as the lightning count flashes eight. Another owl’s answer arcs over from the next valley. Flash. Nine.
On the slope of the long hill a Short-eared owl, pale and ghostly-light floats in display with deeply stroking wings. It approaches another, backlit by sunlight, and the buffy pair sail towards the moor. One lands and stands, yellow eyes staring from long grasses, the other flies a circle above it before heading to the north and away over the horizon. Once gone the earthbound bird takes to the air and, after two or three flaps of its wide wings, glides off to the south.
Not far away where clear blue light meets the green push of the rounded moor and thunder clouds gather on the western flanks – beginning to blacken now below blasted tops – the surrounding songs of Curlews provide the soundtrack. The sun shines on at a slant.
And from the plantation comes the squeal of young Long-eared owls begging for food.
Across the wild hummocked grasses a frog-like call: a Long-eared owl floats towards the trees. In the pine stand – dark ranks where soft needles lie deep enough to silence footfalls – adult owls are feeding full-grown young. Bark-coloured backs blend and hide until movement betrays them. Sleek beauty, ear-tufts raised above brown dapples and ripples.
Soon insistence from hungry young send the adults out to hunt the open land – one quarters the moor, floating silently, listening and following its ears; large-headed, eyes polished amber, shining; jinking at the sound of a vole, turning, perching. Ear-tufts aloft – like the Hare that breaks from cover to gallop away.
The owl glides back to the wood with its prey – and squeals squeeze from trees as the young feed again.
On the horizon lightning flickers against the Payne’s grey of the nimbus: four more strikes, four more owls. Above a pair of Swifts scream and mate on the wing, becoming one four-winged dragonfly against the fading sky. A Curlew crosses the cottage cheese moon.
From the deep valley the long moan of a Tawny owl rises eerily into the evening. A Cuckoo’s call echoes across the heather, in defiance of the dying day.
Back down along the lanes as the colours drain, the thunder cloud gives a further flash, the huge nimbus now hides the nearly-set sun.
Across the track a Little owl flickers from wall to wire to perch, squat and small. The final songs of the day strike out into the night: Song thrush and Wren.
Sheep bleat in darkening fields – white in the fading light. Atop a hawthorn amongst the flock another Little owl hunches – stock still.
A Tawny owl’s note howls from the gloom as the lightning count flashes eight. Another owl’s answer arcs over from the next valley. Flash. Nine.
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There again, it's a perfect evocation of what makes moorland birding something really rather special. Thanks mate.
