A chill morning, the sparkling dew emphasising the intricacies of the spiders webs and leafless foliage. A fug of watery fog, low lying, birds sitting motionless as if under fright but then almost silently, rising as one and letting off songs of joy as though the joys of Summer remain above the cloud. It reminded me of an old song:
Oh the lark in the morning she rises from her nest
And she mounts in the air with the dew on her breast
And like the pretty ploughboy she’ll whistle and sing
And at night she will return to her own nest again
morningmistermagpie.com 