Fog that would not lift
The fog sat in the lower meadow until almost ten. Spider webs on every fence post, heavy with drops. Two jays arguing in the oaks, unseen. The puddle by the gate has frozen at the edges for the first time this season.
A small notebook of morning walks. One field, one path, the same loop most days — and every day it is a little different.
Last of the tansy
Most of the tansy along the ditch has gone brown, but a few heads are still yellow. Found a cluster of shaggy ink caps near the old woodpile. A buzzard circled twice over the far hedge and drifted off toward the river.
Geese, finally
Heard them before seeing them: a long, ragged skein, maybe sixty birds, heading south-west. The rowan by the bench has been stripped bare by fieldfares in two days.