Evening paths

Walking paths made by badgers, over lichen covered rocks where mouse trails crossed. Quiet. Still. The world is hushed and every sound seems big. The click of a claw on stone. The brush of a feather on air high above. The birds follow their own paths, soaring high, buzzard and peregrine. In the bushes they flick and flitter, fast flight, jewel bright. Whiskers twitch. The light fades, tipping into twilight. We walk. And we smell the salt sea stirred by the Wind Cat's storms.