By sundown, a fine gauzy mist has appeared in the valley. It was not resting in white wreaths or patches by the river, it was more as if the earth itself had just exhaled. To the East the tones are blue and grey, to the West where the sun had just slipped by, the sky is radiant, apricot, and succeeding layers of trees, fields and hedges stand out like stage scenery. Stage left, the big black poplar with its huge straight trunk and stiffly-held, angled branches and the graceful ash trees, like ballerinas, straight backed and supple limbed. Stage right: the oaks with their rounded canopies as if drawn by children; the alders, hazel, willow and thorn. Each layer laid over the other in delicate gradations of tone from blue/grey to black. Perspectives flattened; detail absorbed.
A vapour trail glitters as it slides West and with its short, bright tail resembles a streaking comet. A clear cut three quarter moon ascends.
The air is astringent, pinching. It is breathtaking.
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