It wasn’t the chattering of the birds that kept me entranced
tonight, but the discordant bleating of a hundred sheep in the field near the wood.. I’ve noticed before that they
become very vocal at some point during the twilight, and this evening they were
giving a veritable concert with each different voice raised in unison to the
setting sun. A bovine version of Cwm
Rhonda, no doubt.
* * *
There was one of those mountains of characterful cumulus
cloud in the northern sky – the sort that’s white and fluffy on one side, but
painted pale orange on the side that’s facing the yellowing sun; and that side
had faces standing out of it in shades of grey. It wouldn’t be entirely
fanciful to suggest that it looked a little like Mount Rushmore.
Or maybe it would.
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