From The Horse's Mouth
Crushed cumuli along the western horizon had already faded from dawn's oranges to yellow-topped cauliflowers. Two rainbows - multi-coloured parentheses - shone from the clouds' edges. But above only blue.
In the paddock, lit by a million raindrops refracting dazzle from the early sun, horses grazed quietly, studiously. The closest, a chestnut mare, nose down by the five-barred gate, cropped wet grasses, lips brushing gently at the meadow, long and sparse orange whiskers catching the light. And she had company.
Three Yellow wagtails, one a first year bird, tip-toed around the soft and creasing muzzle, deftly, delicately, picking flies from the soaking ground, flicking and pirouetting amongst the diamond spikes, watching hooves for movement.
Linnets balancing on the wire above watched and, on occasion, called their nasal music. The gentle day stood, reluctant to move to autumn: though a Meadow pipit, heading south, called in the season.