halftwo
Wird Batcher
The cronks of a Raven high above the hill drop like stones into the deep valley below. The clouds are parting and the morning beginning to warm. Shadows crawl over the steep slopes.
Up on the cliff the Peregrines are restless. Deep in the crevice the nest is now limed white and shows in the shadows.
The adult falcon has visited and now launches into the void and rises on updrafts until he breaks from the wave of the curling land and powers west, wings a steady beat as he makes for the moor.
Then he turns along the broken ridge and, untiringly, rows out to the south, gaining the sky above the crags and fades into the upwelling air.
Back on the precipice one young falcon stretches her big feet and launches herself off the ledge into her element. Her broad blunt wings, pale edged, bear her away from the nest and she feels the air lift her.
A short flight takes her to a rocky perch nearby and she lands, folding her wings for the first time.
Her sibling now jumps onto the tiny ledge that juts from her home, wings flapping and toes scrabbling, then settles precariously on this fissure which forces her to maintain an upright stance, pressed against the shear face of the cliff. She bobs her head and searches for her sister, just out of sight.
Now the first falcon begins to walk amongst the turf atop the cliff, spying ants beneath her big feet, and pecks at these insects - her first prey.
The day idles to stillness and warmth. Butterflies begin to flit: Small skippers bouncing and Meadow browns gliding above purple heather and nodding grasses, feather topped seed heads foaming. Grasshoppers reel and climb up flower stems.
A calling Treecreeper glides from an oak downslope to a sycamore, its sharp sound as thin as the gossamer threads of spiderwebs which begin to rise, glinting in the sun. The plummy fruit of Blackbird and Willow warblers' drowsy songs wobble up on the heat haze that begins to warp the very air, as bees bomb blossoms in soporific buzzes.
High up Swallows' alarms ring out as a large silhouette of a Sparrowhawk passes.
Back on her ledge the reluctant Peregrine procrastinates and preens, then scrambles along the ledge to the nest where she preens some more. She fans a pale-edged wing and stretches it over her spread tail, turning her head over her shoulder. Then she flaps back to the precipitous perch and peers out on the cracked bowl of the valley.
Her sister takes another flight and tries a pirouette, pulling herself back to the rocks to land again. She bobs her head owl-like, judging distances and jumps off again into the void.
Cumuli pile up in the pale blue sky, the sun at its highest. One young Peregrine remains in shadow on the nest side, the bolder one sits in the sun on her lookout. The cubic miles above that will become her own before long hide, in vast distances above the golden moors, the adult falcons, still hunting after all this time.
Up on the cliff the Peregrines are restless. Deep in the crevice the nest is now limed white and shows in the shadows.
The adult falcon has visited and now launches into the void and rises on updrafts until he breaks from the wave of the curling land and powers west, wings a steady beat as he makes for the moor.
Then he turns along the broken ridge and, untiringly, rows out to the south, gaining the sky above the crags and fades into the upwelling air.
Back on the precipice one young falcon stretches her big feet and launches herself off the ledge into her element. Her broad blunt wings, pale edged, bear her away from the nest and she feels the air lift her.
A short flight takes her to a rocky perch nearby and she lands, folding her wings for the first time.
Her sibling now jumps onto the tiny ledge that juts from her home, wings flapping and toes scrabbling, then settles precariously on this fissure which forces her to maintain an upright stance, pressed against the shear face of the cliff. She bobs her head and searches for her sister, just out of sight.
Now the first falcon begins to walk amongst the turf atop the cliff, spying ants beneath her big feet, and pecks at these insects - her first prey.
The day idles to stillness and warmth. Butterflies begin to flit: Small skippers bouncing and Meadow browns gliding above purple heather and nodding grasses, feather topped seed heads foaming. Grasshoppers reel and climb up flower stems.
A calling Treecreeper glides from an oak downslope to a sycamore, its sharp sound as thin as the gossamer threads of spiderwebs which begin to rise, glinting in the sun. The plummy fruit of Blackbird and Willow warblers' drowsy songs wobble up on the heat haze that begins to warp the very air, as bees bomb blossoms in soporific buzzes.
High up Swallows' alarms ring out as a large silhouette of a Sparrowhawk passes.
Back on her ledge the reluctant Peregrine procrastinates and preens, then scrambles along the ledge to the nest where she preens some more. She fans a pale-edged wing and stretches it over her spread tail, turning her head over her shoulder. Then she flaps back to the precipitous perch and peers out on the cracked bowl of the valley.
Her sister takes another flight and tries a pirouette, pulling herself back to the rocks to land again. She bobs her head owl-like, judging distances and jumps off again into the void.
Cumuli pile up in the pale blue sky, the sun at its highest. One young Peregrine remains in shadow on the nest side, the bolder one sits in the sun on her lookout. The cubic miles above that will become her own before long hide, in vast distances above the golden moors, the adult falcons, still hunting after all this time.
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