I wake this morning to clear blue skies and sunshine.   Such a contrast to yesterday which was smothered in a damp mist containing pockets of rain.

Yesterday as Daisy and I walked across the fields our boundaries were muted and constrained.     The known horizon was lost somewhere behind the layers of mist and our world shrank to fit what we could see.    

There was a butterfly on the lichen tree yesterday, and I found brambles flowering.   It is the middle of November and today it is as if a stray and capricious spring day has arrived to confuse us all.    

Daisy and I walk out across the meadow towards the woodland paths.   We take the easy path across the field.   The sun is high and travelling and there is real heat in it.   It is casting strong shadows across the grassland. 

Daisy and I take our usual rest at the beech tree.   I look back across the meadow.     The sky is the colour of cornflowers.      The weather vane fox, running eastwards yesterday, has turned on her heels and now pursues the west.      She is running the sun to ground.

Everything is backlit with warm sunshine.     The trees, now so free of leaf, show their skeletal forms in stark relief.     Even at the furthest extent of the tree line, the limbs of the trees show clear and black against the horizon.     The light is so intense, so clear, that everything stands out in extraordinary definition.   The burnished leaves that remain on the trees glow in the sunshine.    They are almost translucent with light.   

The silver birches standing to the south of the meadow shine in the sunlight.   Behind them stand beech, oak and ash trees.   They are bathed in filtered, secondhand sunshine.   They are softly blurred at the edges, embracing in to each other, they remind me of an impressionist painting.  

There is a breeze, it is warm and shimmers through the beech canopy above us.   I close my eyes and listen to the sound.     It could be the sea I hear, the drawing of the water from the gravelly beach of my cornish fishing village.     

The canopy of the beech tree above me is a mosaic of yellow, green and amber.   Yesterday, where it has been so thinned by the onset of autumn, we sat and felt rain for the first time.   Normally the density of the leaves has kept us dry in the most torrential downpours of rain.       

Yesterday, Daisy, scenting a mouse, dug down beneath the root of the beech and the disturbed earth smelled moist, pungent and rich.     Yesterday, it was autumn, the season of wood fires and chill mornings, early darkness and cold in the bones.

Today, if it was not for the deep leaf litter beneath my feet and the burnished autumn colours of the hedgerows and trees it could be any spring day.

As Daisy and I make our way home, the pale and waning moon is clearly visible in the morning sky.

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