Earlier, the slight twigs of valley trees tangled a thin mist, preventing it from leaving the river course to form higher clouds. Seen from a hill the bare crowns of these trees appeared snagged in soft cotton-wool that thinned as the grazing land rose to my viewpoint.
The misted sky just fell dark heralding a swift storm of rain bringing wind and a sudden rush of water, like the overflow of a bath in the carpark. Soon this passed and the clouds tore, creating at first a rectangle of baby blue in the grey that had two horizontal stripes of white lit cloud like nothing else but a slice of angel cake. The tear spread from the North Western sky until, above the horizon, clouds made only small scuffs in the graduated blue canopy.
The rising breeze that whipped trees with the rain has waned. Enough to flash the underleaf colour in the evergreen oaks, but playfully; without violence.
Relaxed flocks of winter birds now lazily seek thermals or survey the agricultural landscape for the next safe beak-full. The washed world reflects the new sunlight and gently dries.
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