This evening’s twilight was one of those that herald the
start of autumn. We’d had light rain for most of the day, and although it had stopped
as the day was fading, everything dripped in the cold, still air. Heavy mist
washed the ridge beyond the river into a pale grey half tone, with slightly darker
patches where the trees and copses stand. I like evenings like that, although I
associate them more with November than September.
The solitary bat was still flying around the house, though.
Whether he was getting a good supper I couldn’t tell. I hope so because we know
what happened last year: only one of the family survived the cold, four-month
winter, possibly because they hadn’t been able to gain enough weight during the
preceding, exceptionally wet summer.
‘Better days for bats’ is tonight’s cry, therefore. Evenings
aren’t the same without them.
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