It was cold, but bright. The sun shone from a clear blue sky and the ground was covered with shining slithers of white ice which coated both grass and tree branches. I shivered in the cold as I left the copse and made my way across the expanse of field ahead of me.

Behind me the weight of my footfall had left a visable indent in the frost, but there were no other prints. I couldn’t help feeling slightly disappointed. I had hoped to spot signs that other critters had passed this way – birds maybe, or rabbits even. But there were none. The sky was equally empty, no birds seemed to be flying this morning either. I plodded on, shoulders hunched against the cold.

The ground started to incline as I got closer to the far edge of the field. The short, cropped grass gave way to long, straggly fronds which were now stiff and dead. Back in the summer these had been lush and swayed majestically in the breezes, but the turning of the season and the cold temperatures had changed all that. Brown and broken stalks, all tangled and many laying on the ground, were now glittered and sparkling in the Winter frost. I headed up the hill, pushing my way through the grass as it tangled around at my legs and tugged at my ankles. The longer grass gave cover for small mammals and birds. There were rustles and random shaking of some of the stalks. I hoped this was not simply air currents. I slowed my pace and started to place my feet with care, trying to make as little disturbance as possible. But still the critters evaded my sight.

Half way up I finally caught a break. The wind brought me the a familiar sound, the unmistakable call of a buzzard. I turned and looked up into the sky. It wheeled and crossed over the side of the hill, watching the ground beneath. He stayed for only a very short while before he rose higher and headed off over the hill and out of sight.