halftwo
Wird Batcher
Between two dry-stone walls the footpath shelters, a warm breeze running, harebells nodding to the bomb of bumblebees searching low against the blow. A Meadow pipit sits on the slanting top stones, bill crammed with a bright green caterpillar and gravy brown craneflies, waiting to sneak to its nest hidden against the wall's base.
A family of Greenfinches bunch - a cluster of pea pods bright beneath the grey sky - a low lid hanging over the vale. A parent arrives to feed them in a burst of wing flurry, all jostling for position.
Across the square field by the long grass edge hovers a young Kestrel, head to the wind. Two months old and independent it already has the mastery of the elements. As the breeze buffets in lumps and steady blow between it deftly adjusts to remain on station above the vole run.
Now it shifts height and, as if perching on another lower shelf, stands on the air as if it were solid. Wings and tail constantly move to each nuance of air, its body rising and dropping, yet its head is nailed against the hill beyond - absolutely immobile.
Dark cinnamon with flecks of black flicker against the green land as it watches - peering at potential prey. Its pale head with grey moustaches bends against the working rest of its self and tilts groundward in its quest.
Suddenly it drops to five feet above the field for a second, hovering just above the wall. Now its wings flex higher and forward, dark-banded tail adjusting to lesser breeze, and it pounces, in a blur of wings and talons.
Before the vole is eaten three Crows spy the falcon and flap towards it, noisy in the brush of wind. The Kestrel launches away and curves to a sycamore to hide away with its meal.
A family of Greenfinches bunch - a cluster of pea pods bright beneath the grey sky - a low lid hanging over the vale. A parent arrives to feed them in a burst of wing flurry, all jostling for position.
Across the square field by the long grass edge hovers a young Kestrel, head to the wind. Two months old and independent it already has the mastery of the elements. As the breeze buffets in lumps and steady blow between it deftly adjusts to remain on station above the vole run.
Now it shifts height and, as if perching on another lower shelf, stands on the air as if it were solid. Wings and tail constantly move to each nuance of air, its body rising and dropping, yet its head is nailed against the hill beyond - absolutely immobile.
Dark cinnamon with flecks of black flicker against the green land as it watches - peering at potential prey. Its pale head with grey moustaches bends against the working rest of its self and tilts groundward in its quest.
Suddenly it drops to five feet above the field for a second, hovering just above the wall. Now its wings flex higher and forward, dark-banded tail adjusting to lesser breeze, and it pounces, in a blur of wings and talons.
Before the vole is eaten three Crows spy the falcon and flap towards it, noisy in the brush of wind. The Kestrel launches away and curves to a sycamore to hide away with its meal.
