halftwo
Wird Batcher
Between the squalls under a brighter sky the low moor squats in the wind. Golden Plover, heads to the half gale, glow in the brief sun. Lapwings on eggs squeeze tightly into small hollows and watch the sky.
A huge cloud towers over the hill - a giant wave on the break. The world darkens. Out on the moor top lately fallen snow picks out the ridges and the grey drags like smoke rising heavily from the heather.
Now the Rooks rise and with them Jackdaws in a wary spiral lift into the weather. Somewhere a Peregrine's speck has spooked all the lower birds. Every Lapwing not on eggs flies up and they flock, not knowing which way to go: the falcon is almost directly above.
Curlews keeping low surf over stone walls, searching for cover. Only the five Brown Hares bunched in the grass are unmoved.
By the darkened plantation a flock of Wood Pigeons clatters into the slaty sky and scatter across the high ground. Now the Peregrine is visible.
He is high against the towering cloud, turning on the quick air spilling over the hill. Now he puts his head against the wind and stiffens his wings - and at once they catch the gale - primaries bending up as they lift, taking him higher without effort. He turns again and lets the blow behind him send him northwards towards the valley.
The world watches him getting smaller into the distance, his majestic arrow curving as the weather takes him. Or as he takes the weather.
Blue begins to break from the ragged edge of the cloud and birds begin to settle - warily at watch for the dangerous sky.
Snipe begin to display - skimming the blue untiringly and Curlew come back to the fields, calling a ripple in the cold air.
Swallows skim the grass - almost touching the wind-bent blades. The Peregrine's storm has passed.
A huge cloud towers over the hill - a giant wave on the break. The world darkens. Out on the moor top lately fallen snow picks out the ridges and the grey drags like smoke rising heavily from the heather.
Now the Rooks rise and with them Jackdaws in a wary spiral lift into the weather. Somewhere a Peregrine's speck has spooked all the lower birds. Every Lapwing not on eggs flies up and they flock, not knowing which way to go: the falcon is almost directly above.
Curlews keeping low surf over stone walls, searching for cover. Only the five Brown Hares bunched in the grass are unmoved.
By the darkened plantation a flock of Wood Pigeons clatters into the slaty sky and scatter across the high ground. Now the Peregrine is visible.
He is high against the towering cloud, turning on the quick air spilling over the hill. Now he puts his head against the wind and stiffens his wings - and at once they catch the gale - primaries bending up as they lift, taking him higher without effort. He turns again and lets the blow behind him send him northwards towards the valley.
The world watches him getting smaller into the distance, his majestic arrow curving as the weather takes him. Or as he takes the weather.
Blue begins to break from the ragged edge of the cloud and birds begin to settle - warily at watch for the dangerous sky.
Snipe begin to display - skimming the blue untiringly and Curlew come back to the fields, calling a ripple in the cold air.
Swallows skim the grass - almost touching the wind-bent blades. The Peregrine's storm has passed.
