A personal essay

It is a clear November morning. An early mist has settled over the field into a thick blanket of dew which coats each blade of grass with tiny droplets of water, gathering in orbs at the tips which light up like stars when they catch the rays of the sun.

Leaves of mottled ochre, rust and flame-red drift towards the ground. Birch trees sway like underwater kelp forests. The last, yellowing leaves of the ash trees wave and flutter like fairy flags in a cornflower blue sky and the oaks are clad in fine leafy crowns of burnished bronze, russet and gold: autumn’s elegiac song, soon to be blown away with the coming winter winds.

A bright green woodpecker flashes through the trees. Morning calls of blackbird, robin and wren infuse the air with song. Meandering trackways left by fox and badger snake…