Cold, with dark and lowering skies, but on the high hill top the grass grows golden. Today my fur looks like frosted ginger. I am the Kiffer Cat, who walks with his head on one side, and by my whiskers and paws I knew that today was a day to walk the hill. So I waited, outside the old man's house, until they came by.
As we walked to the top of the hill I stuck close, so close, with the odd bound ahead to chase the dogs. I could hear the pee-wit call of the white breasted crowned birds across fields. The sky was dark and threatened rain, and sure enough by the time we had crowned the hill cold rain began to fall, cold but light.
Over the hills and far away, across the brittle bones of heather flowers, to a place strewn with feathers from a falcon's kill and we sat and looked and listened. Just before the rain came there was a slight wind as water disturbed air with its falling.
Home across the heather again with sharp gorse spikes and the distant island stretched out in the sea.
As we walked down the hill a great brown buzzard rose with wide wings and lifted into a sky that was so dark now in the early morning light, so dark and so heavy with the weight of water. Look close, for I am the bright cat spark in the centre of the dark land beneath the clouds.