In between times

This is an odd, liminal time of year. Balanced between the high summer of long days and high sun but not yet tipped over into autumnal bounty, there is a sense of pause, of slight caesura. The commonly seen garden birds are largely absent, moulting, vulnerable and shy, and only the last-man standing yellowhammer fanfares our morning cycle. The first fields harvested leave hares slightly startled to be unveiled again, and the last fledglings are finding their way in the world or not. Soon the swifts who still wheel overhead will quietly slip away and autumn fruits will become winter fat. But for now, there are unique sights to be seen; large Hawker dragonflies basking like exquisite Faberge pieces, and a road so biblically full of froglets that we can barely walk.