Owl-light

In between the light of day and the dark of night we walk the boundaries of home. The twilight is still. A gentle breath of promised rain touches our fur, the only thing to hold a colour still in this twixt light. Still we burn through the dimity darkness with our fire-glow coats.
No birds are singing.
All is calm and the half-night sky is bruised dark with cloud.
It is as if the world holds its breath and waits for night to fall.
No birds sing, not even the grasshopper warbler. Owls awake and begin their hush winged flight.
Not even the murmur of a distant sea disturbs the peace.