It is after the rain bearing clouds have blown by:
after I hang the washing out and the white shower curtain reflects the sun to
make me squint: I am indoors, running upstairs: I don't know why, I always run
upstairs: I am looking for a thing, a coffee cup usually, and that is the point
of first startlement.
A house sized shadow flies across the horses' field. I
feel the noise.
Boy jumps out of his room. 'Two propellers,' he says,
peering through windows for sign of the beast in flight. 'There it is.' He
points. It is low and heavy: a cargo of something leaden. The shock of the
shadow replays.
The warmth settles and there is no need to be indoors.
I have coffee and paper and a working pen and sit at the pallet table writing
serious notes when a second startlement occurs: smaller, with grey tone wing
feathers splayed to slow its course: a predatory bird scouts the hedge, light
and low, then curves a path into the greenery of the ash tree.
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