The Fae Field Inspiration

Vocal are the geese at their interruption.
They are not easily flapped, these birds.
They are the same birds that sat watchfully unruffled in a cropped field, while Dog and I ran by, one energetic, lightly misted cross-country morning.
Under the overhead honking is the whir of a blade wielding tractor: not a goose killer, a hedge cutter. It is cutting the hedge in the field we had hoped to be picking rosehips in.

Huff.
It is the sort of greyish dampish day best fitted to introspective thoughts, not suitable for noise or interruption. We drag our heels and then an off the usual track open gate to an undisturbed field is what we find.
Like an answer when you weren’t sure of what your question needed to be.

Here the overgrown hedge reaches out, it hands us a bag of ripe red hips and a pocketful of dark sloeberries. Dog runs routes circular, angular and out of the field flees three deer, two rabbits, one fox. There are so many pheasants Dog can’t fit them all into her schedule, some must flush themselves out and fake an inconvenience. One makes Dog jump, which is funny as it happens and as she makes the face of bemusement shortly after. 

We rest at a central oak. It has an arched root perfect for a seat and underneath are tree root caves, the sort that make you surprised to arrive home and find it is the same day and you have not been accidentally captive in a Fae land for seven years.
We arrive home later that same day, laden with fruits and knowing how to not end the Halloween Story this year.