Curlew.

The first duffel coat walk of the autumn, out over the fields behind the village. Newly green shoots of a winter crop are ruffled by burrowing curlews, their beaks thick with earth. One bird stretches its foot up to it’s beak scratching off the mud. Siskins’ yellow plummage pure gold in the late afternoon sun. Muddy path, a noisy, chatty burn. Moonstone clouds melt into a purple bruised sky. The only sound, the cry of the curlew catches in my throat and I carry it home.

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