january 29

clinging mists in the folds of the range of  further horizons
perhaps I'm in it too

a solitary duck sends out an anguished call
keeps trying
now faster now throatier
a longer silence
another
deep in a ditch
its a conversation
fields apart

two magpies sitting on the absolute tips of two spindly trees
their contradictory noise
echoing each other

and hedges blend into trees blend into thickets into firs
echo of aircraft
chorded deep and comfotably
fading gently on and on
birds, a stream, the latch of a gate

solitude is the great giver