Daily Field
First ice on the gate puddle
The fog sat in the lower meadow until almost ten. Every fence post had a spider web strung between the wire and the wood, heavy with drops, and the whole line of them glittered when the sun finally came through.
A small notebook of morning walks. One field, one path, the same loop most days — and every day it is a little different.
Latest notes
Ink caps by the woodpile
Most of the tansy along the ditch has gone brown, but a few flower heads are still stubbornly yellow.
Geese, finally
Heard them long before I saw them: a ragged skein, maybe sixty birds, high and heading south-west. The sound carries strangely in low cloud.
A hare in the stubble
The stubble field to the east has been left this year instead of ploughed straight away. This morning a hare was sitting right in the middle of it, ears flat, perfectly still. I only noticed because of the low sun catching its eye.
Spindle berries
The spindle bush at the bottom corner is the best it has been for years: shocking pink capsules split open to show the orange seeds. It looks artificial against the grey hedge.