On Thursday, I stepped outside the front door to be greeted by the 'whoosh' of a low-flying flock of Starlings, weaving their way around the rooftops in a high speed commute to who-knows-where. Arriving at work, my attention was grabbed by a group of Fieldfares, 'chack'-ing as they flew from bare tree tops to fallow meadow.
This evening, a gibbous moon glowed in a corona of high cloud, casting an eerie light across a still, windless landscape. Fallen leaves sat motionless on the dry ground, their brittle beauty seemingly reluctant to make any sound lest they disturb the quietness.
A faint trace of wood smoke tainted the air, flavouring the dusk with the promise of warmth indoors. I took the hint and headed homewards, to be regaled by tales of more robust weather further north.