Fruiting, falling, rotting wood. Dark wood, sodden with a day’s rain. Slip, slide, squelch, stuck. I sit at the edge of the field, looking west. The sky brightens to an apricot glow on the horizon.
Walking a field beyond the village a buzzard hovers above me, it’s tail feathered rudder pitches and yaws to keep the bird still, it’s great wings motionless. We eye each other. Further along I disturb a flock of corn buntings, feeding on thistles along the field margin. They rise, settling on the overhead wires. Startled quail break cover with their whirring wings and much consternation. Meanwhile the buzzard flaps low, lazily over the stubble, as a crow swoops down, attacking the interloper. With a flick of its wing, the buzzard sends the crow spiralling, falling, righting itself just above the ground.