Mid-morning like dusk,

a low dull sky obscuring

the sun and its light.

Peace despite the wind.

The only one of my kind,

a sole survivor.

A squirrel tells me,

as it scurries up a tree,

‘You are not alone.’

A mewing buzzard

mobbed by a tenacious crow

glides to a woodland.

A flurry of grey

against the dark wintry trees

as pigeons scatter.

Gulls silent and white,

fields incongruously green,

corvids clouds of black.

As if on a string,

a kite hovers above me,

bringing tears of joy.

A wood pigeon’s call,

a reminder of summer

on a winter’s day.

A flash of gold green

as a woodpecker flies low,

like moss in sunshine.

The yacking jackdaws,

a quiet flock of lapwings

and chattering rooks.

Catkins on hazel

and dried leaves decorating

trees that are dormant.

Fox musk in the air,

and at the sight of a hare

I exclaim out loud.

I turn to look back

but it is uncomfortable.

Keep looking forward.

By the end, I feel

both uplifted and grounded,

by heaven and earth.

Gunfire kills the peace,

and the birds raise the alarm.

We are not alone...