halftwo
Wird Batcher
A Jackdaw's shadow scurries along the field over tussocks, in and out of ditches, like a black fox. The metal petals of Goldfinch calls like foil confetti glinting in the sun, shower down to the hay field now showing green again through its own straw.
A Kestrel glides to a post and settles.
Swallows skim the meadow, low over the grass, while Swifts jink and scythe above amongst cauliflower cumuli billowing in the blue. House Martins glide between, pied and plump; each species in its niche.
The smell of hay thickens in the heat, the languid afternoon barely stirring. Four flute notes of a Blackbird float from the hedge where the dog rose grows through hawthorn. A Yellowhammer cock, disturbed by a descending Lapwing flies from the stubble to sit on a wire.
Fat Wood pigeons doze in the shady ash.
Then, there it is: the Hobby. Along the ridge where it can see the sweep of the land rolling away to the moor, it glides with a slow flick of its long rapier wings, heading west. Too quickly gone below the horizon: it leaves behind far emptier skies.
A Kestrel glides to a post and settles.
Swallows skim the meadow, low over the grass, while Swifts jink and scythe above amongst cauliflower cumuli billowing in the blue. House Martins glide between, pied and plump; each species in its niche.
The smell of hay thickens in the heat, the languid afternoon barely stirring. Four flute notes of a Blackbird float from the hedge where the dog rose grows through hawthorn. A Yellowhammer cock, disturbed by a descending Lapwing flies from the stubble to sit on a wire.
Fat Wood pigeons doze in the shady ash.
Then, there it is: the Hobby. Along the ridge where it can see the sweep of the land rolling away to the moor, it glides with a slow flick of its long rapier wings, heading west. Too quickly gone below the horizon: it leaves behind far emptier skies.
