We walk around the village in the milky moonlight of a clouded full moon night. The moonshadows are softened by cloudlight. We see the barn owl, a fragile scrap of white, caught in the moonlight and lifted high by the paw of the wind. And the wind cat is rising still and calling her pride to come and play, bending the trees and lifting the waves to moonbows in the spray. The scent of woodsmoke threads through the path of the wind.
Back in the garden we hear the owl, still calling, still hunting.