In a tree lined village street at Lingfield, as I drive
cautiously along the approach to a busy junction, a jay emerges from the last
tree and comes gliding down towards something I cannot see that lies in the
path of my truck. For a second or two as
we approach one another, I am able to look down on him as he spreads his
beautifully coloured wings in preparation for landing, but just as I am about
to panic so he changes his mind and swoops up again to disappear beyond my
shoulder.
In a winding country lane running along one of the Wealden
ridges, as I slow to make room for an oncoming van, a kestrel with wings held
high and tail in the up position, drops down along a dead straight landing
path, touches the road for half a second, and then flies back up and away,
along that very same line; carrying something in one talon that is small enough
to be a vole.
As the truck trundles along the edge of a vast undulating
field of wild flowers, so a skylark slowly descends until she vanishes in to a mist
of buttercups.
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