Featherweights

The mist has lifted up to be more conventional, to lay across the firmament, easily identifiable as cloud. Indecision has not left the sky. Over the fuzz of cloud and the chill wind, the solid warmth of sun is waiting. Will the opportune moment come today, or will rain prevail? It could go either way. Mr and I walk up from the field, each with a cut slim branch on a shoulder. We step side by side, mindful of the possibility of a very literal slapstick injury. Experience has taught us well. We watch a pheasant slink up from under the cover of the big oak. Dog runs, nose to ground, but does not find it this time, neither did we see where it hid. The birds are very purposeful this time of year. Two wagtails fly in the confines of a hawthorn, round and through, oblivious to sharp spines and human presence, caught in a territorial dispute. Mr tells me two black belts were fighting at the top of the lane, and would not stop even with the car driving at them. He meant blackbirds.