It is twilight and tonight I walk alone. Damp grass pulls my fur to sharp points where it brushes against my coat. Some light still holds fast to the sky for the night is not quite fallen yet. Few stars shine through and I wait for the whisker thin moon to silver the edges of cloud.
The sheep are restless. Across the fields I can hear new puppies at Janet's farm, excited by the smells of night.
The dogs walk the bounds of the village, as they do every night, and chase away the red fox from the corner where the chickens roost in uneasy sleep. Badgers, the small striped bears of Britain, pad their heavy way between the high hedge banks. Tonight they feast on snail and slug and the firm early blackberries that whisper of autumn. Snakes snooze in the cool and wait for summer to return.
It is quiet. I can hear the flitflak of a bat's wing. Outside the house moths dance by the lamplit windows.
And I wait, for the thinnest moon to rise, for the hushwing owl to stir small birds from their twig-tangled havens, for the angry squeals of mice in the long, wet grass, for the stars to sing.