Postman was right: this weather has the fidgets. Sun-bright 7am, wind-lashed 8am, the cloud has landed at 9am. Either smoke from a gorse fire or a wedge of mist lodges in a crook of moorland. Under scrutiny, it seems too immobile for smoke, unobserved, it seems to shift. Fact or fiction, fire or mist: definitely distracting.
In the sun gap, I walk down and around the fields, smiling at Dog’s indulgent pursuit of uncatchable swallows. Or swifts or martins, I have never remembered yet. Split tails and dark wings, skimming over the grass.
After lunch, the clouds look set to part. Washing is pegged to line. I return to the kitchen, thinking of sitting outside to sketch, and before the kettle has time to boil, bulbous raindrops are falling. I have a very rude word to say about that. However contrary the weather may be, not even randomly will it try caring what I think.
Waterproofs are pulled on; I may as well clear my mind with a field walk. Dog supports this, actively. We scale the gate in quick succession, and the clouds part. Rain steams off the grass.
In the second sun gap: more smiling. The weather is impervious: my reaction is my choice.
Dog surprises two pheasants, and above their clacks of indignation, I think I hear a fox yip. My next find is the fresh, flesh-stripped foreleg of a rabbit. The joints are still connected; it’s mechanically beautiful. I can make out chew marks. There is no other evidence. The rest of rabbit is part of fox now. It seems gruesome, but my interest is respectful. My fields are full of acknowledged ghosts.