After two days warm, in the sun, the journey on Tuesday morning was on drying roads. Under the melding deciduous canopy the road held fine vernal litter. Brown stipules under the beeches, green male flowers under the maple and the microscopic allergenic dust (for those who suffer hay) sprinkled the ground, adding to the colour pallette growing richer with the season.
I saw the first foal, a Shetland, Wednesday; in the sunshine before the day cooled and softened into a hazy, sleepy evening.
Yesterday broke bright and sunny, but the demoralising predictions of the weather folk came to fruition and, though sun and blue pushed past my window into mid morning, they were driving on the edge of stormy weather that occasionally dominated, to soak and wash the fresh spring colours clean again. Herds of herbivorous mammals on the lawns and heaths were having their hair gently ruffled on my morning drive. The evening was accompanied by angry rattling of things not tied down, the flapping of sacks, the hiss of airborne particles blasting glass.
Stiller this morning, clouded, damp. I foolishly woke for the start of the morning chorus; territorial shouts, avian wolf whistles and calls to arms.
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