In a field of golden stubble, a flock of Canada geese. They lift, then circle as we move through the field, wings whistling. The sea is unnaturally still. It flicks and folds on stones, the shallow breath of a sleeping sea.
Each year, at this time, I make a pilgrimage to the beach. The path is heather scented. No seals yet, but I think I hear their calls on the edge of the wind. Maybe it is only a memory, and echo, a trick of the sea.
I sit for a while and try to gather words.
This is one of my favorite places to work. There are ravens, chough, sunshine.
The sound of the water changed as I sat hunting words and time passed. The tide had turned. In the sheltered cove a silver seal floated. It is so quiet, so hushed that even from the cliffs you can hear the seals breath.
The dogs get tired from waiting. We walk home.
As I stand again to watch the water a peregrine flies past then circles, stoops over the water.