INTO the November wood, the low mist seeping in from a Victorian graveyard. And it is cold, the sort of cold that enters the marrow of the bone and the core of the soul. Ahead in the ash tree, a roosting pigeon is puffed into a ball and birch trees are already studded by stars. Overhead in the late evening sky, a single jet aeroplane, a flaming red arrow, heading to a place I will never know and likely never visit. The gale last week—and gales and November go together like April and ‘shoures’—ripped the leaves off almost everything arboreal except the holly and oak; at the top of the bare ash, the revealed blot of a magpie’s nest.
Silence, except for the slight slush of my feet through the wet leaf litter, the panting of the labrador, the chinking of a blackbird and, at the far end of the wood, the fading radio chatter of starlings— the sounds of a wood settling down for the night. Then, nearby, the scream of a jay, and a diminishing glimpse of the light-bulb flash of its rump. And the darkening silence lies in shards.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة November 30, 2022 من Country Life UK.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك ? تسجيل الدخول
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة November 30, 2022 من Country Life UK.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
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