A day full of the distraction of wings. On the path up the hill snail shells made a mosaic pattern, broken and splintered. The birds need no anvil stones to break the brittle winter shells. The earth is hard as stone, frozen.
Low winter sun slant lights ginger fur to make it burn like fire in the cold. The blue sky is huge.
On top of the rock there are frozen pockets of water. The horses eat the thorny gorse bushes. Even they look cold.
And the sky is patterned with the most beautiful clouds that sing of high winds, far off, painting patterns in the air.
Later there are no clouds in the night sky. The air is strange, almost thickened by the cold. Starlight glimmers on frost crystals in the grass, though few stars are visible in the night's fabric. The sea whispers a gentle song. The dogs run off into the night on a wild hunt, chasing the fleet foot fox. Only Rosie remains, hackles up, unsure, barking, as the old dogs' voices become more distant in the chase. We walk slowly around the night time village on the moon silvered pathways, dappled with shadows under the low thorn trees. Now and then we stand and listen to the progress of the wild hunt.
The fox escapes and the dogs wander back, fierce and jumping still, with excitement. All is still again, but for the sea's song, the pad paw of cat on the frost crisped grass and the occasional chatter of a shrew in its sleep.
Inside is warm, the fire glows ginger, we settle to dream.
Later there are no clouds in the night sky. The air is strange, almost thickened by the cold. Starlight glimmers on frost crystals in the grass, though few stars are visible in the night's fabric. The sea whispers a gentle song. The dogs run off into the night on a wild hunt, chasing the fleet foot fox. Only Rosie remains, hackles up, unsure, barking, as the old dogs' voices become more distant in the chase. We walk slowly around the night time village on the moon silvered pathways, dappled with shadows under the low thorn trees. Now and then we stand and listen to the progress of the wild hunt.
The fox escapes and the dogs wander back, fierce and jumping still, with excitement. All is still again, but for the sea's song, the pad paw of cat on the frost crisped grass and the occasional chatter of a shrew in its sleep.
Inside is warm, the fire glows ginger, we settle to dream.
I am intrigued that in spite of the cold weather there is green fresh moss and that rambling little ground cover.
ReplyDeleteThey do look lovely in their fluffy winter coats.
ReplyDeleteI like the fact that Rosie did the raising the hackles but thought better of chasing off after something!
what a lovely description of the village on a cold crisp night. I'm glad the fox escaped.
ReplyDeleteWhat a beautiful post. fabulous photos and very poetic. We loved it.
ReplyDelete...the pad paw of cat on the frost crisped grass
ReplyDeleteYour photos and your writing are superb! I think they would all make a lovely cat book.
Warmfelines,
Teri and the cats of Furrydance