halftwo
Wird Batcher
The squalls of the night which had blasted through, bringing rain and stripping summer leaves from bending trees, had abated to half a gale by the morning. Now the clouds stood bright edged with the morning sun behind. Every second brought scene changes with shifting cumuli scudding ragged from the moor tops and leaning over the valleys as if they would fall like a felled tower.
Two Golden plover struggled into the blast, tipping into light, flashing white under wings, black bellies between. Their rapid flicker blinking, taking them down to wall sheltered fields where cattle lay against the stones below the blow.
A flock of Linnets suddenly takes to the air above their thistles and spirals, buffeted and blown as they try to remain grouped: they could see a small falcon low against the land, the wind behind it and so fast it covered the earth in a flash, curving the contours at the valley's head, and was gone - almost merely imagined by the finches now falling back to the field.
Lower and the land no less blown, all life crouching. Swallows below trees and pressed against the meadows. Swifts above into the wind their rapid flight only holding them in place.
A family of Mistle thrushes rise and watch as a Kestrel slips out into the breeze to tackle a Sparrowhawk dark above the slope, turning on the wind. The two raptors clash with talons and tipped wings, then part. Pied wagtails skim to hiding, wary and hold still in the wall's crease, and Goldfinches skip to the canopy of a swaying tree.
The morning calms and the sun breaks, now a smaller breeze allows Swallows to rise and join the Swifts, Swifts now moving across the woods. The storm has passed.
Two Golden plover struggled into the blast, tipping into light, flashing white under wings, black bellies between. Their rapid flicker blinking, taking them down to wall sheltered fields where cattle lay against the stones below the blow.
A flock of Linnets suddenly takes to the air above their thistles and spirals, buffeted and blown as they try to remain grouped: they could see a small falcon low against the land, the wind behind it and so fast it covered the earth in a flash, curving the contours at the valley's head, and was gone - almost merely imagined by the finches now falling back to the field.
Lower and the land no less blown, all life crouching. Swallows below trees and pressed against the meadows. Swifts above into the wind their rapid flight only holding them in place.
A family of Mistle thrushes rise and watch as a Kestrel slips out into the breeze to tackle a Sparrowhawk dark above the slope, turning on the wind. The two raptors clash with talons and tipped wings, then part. Pied wagtails skim to hiding, wary and hold still in the wall's crease, and Goldfinches skip to the canopy of a swaying tree.
The morning calms and the sun breaks, now a smaller breeze allows Swallows to rise and join the Swifts, Swifts now moving across the woods. The storm has passed.
All I've had this evening is the squawking of the Ring-necked Parakeets competing with the low rumble coming from Heathrow 
