Hunting Owls

Autumn arrives on a carriage drawn by horses of mist. Cotton-gauze swathed trees stand still in a moving sea of colour ever-changing with the layers of hills at dawn, meadows saturated with moisture and a sharp chill that’s only eased by the rising sun. With day’s beginning, a promise is spoken. Presents are laid on a table for us to unwrap. Instead of rustling paper and bows, it’s our steps taking us towards the revelation of surprises. There is so much to discover. Old, familiar places change with season and light.

As the afternoon burns out over the hills and fells, the hunters circle the breeze. With wings of ivory and alabaster silk, they find their quarry in fields whose hues they match as if cut from the same cloth with gilt-stitched edges in grass and wing.

And as dusk comes, the skies turn a royal blue. The day is sliding into night, into another realm.