It’s just after sunrise and through a gap in the trees, a group of eight hares form a loose circle. They chase, jump and wheel round in groups of two, three and four. It’s a moment, before they gradually disperse through gates and along field boundaries. Their encounter over. And not being a hare, I can only make up human stories of what was going on. What I do know is that it elevated me this morning as I settle down in my little adopted space at the corner of the rushy field, with flask, notebook and binoculars scattered around. I train my telescope on a sitting lapwing, she is adjusting her body to cover, what I imagine to be a clutch of eggs. I can see her wispy crest, her white belly, the mascara line below her eye. An eye, so alert yet vulnerable, I feel a surge of tenderness. I wonder which way this tenderness flows, and realise this flow has no direction, it is part of a ‘field’, this field, we are sitting in together. And I notice, I am holding my breath in delight and anticipation, but also with a tendril of fear of the loss of something so precious.
There is a clear jingle from the wall behind me. I look around and there is the trembling orange/red tail of a small bird, I know so well, still flicking off the Sahara dust. She is early this redstart, I had not expected her for a week or so… and I certainly did not expect to hear her sing! And of course ‘she’ is not singing, this is not a female redstart but a male black redstart silhouetted by the early morning sun. What a surprise.