The mornings are late, dew laden and chilly but by lunchtime the insects are buzzing with the vigour of summer.
Chiffchaffs and willow warblers are passing through but clearing their throats as they do and in a light breeze I can close my eyes and be back in early spring.
The fields are almost all trimmed to stubble and bales sit where days before swayed a golden sea. Giant, twined coffins bearing the unburned ashes of a season’s toil.
Mist will settle before the sun has set but despite the shortening day there is a sense of permanence about this time especially with settled weather. For a month or so the evenings’ drawing is so protracted that it belies the lengthening night that follows. We’ll get a slap in the face come December of course, but until then we can let ourselves drift just a little bit.