This too-bright morning, a wren scattering dew and song as it flits, branch to branch. The robin with hues a long gone shepherd might heed as warning spilling from its breast. Here and there, grouse call, rocking the never-quite silence back and forth between them. But it's the absurdity of lapwings that sends me downhill to cross the road and contemplate the vast moorland, and another skyline with its strange comfort of geology, specifically the sobering rampart of Whin Sill that is Cronkley Scar. In a held breath a hare lollops between tussocks then blends into heath.
but for a snipe winnowing deep time