Outside, right now, the air has quite a wet metallic tang. The electric storm passed over, throwing down some rain, rumbling and grumbling a bit, threatening but nothing serious after all.
My hens have gone to roost. They perch in a line crooning night sounds. Overhead a raven flies out from Badnage Wood and somewhere above the Dingle croaks out his night song too.
Over on the little field a huge cow, silhouetted against the eastern skyline, flicks her tongue from her mouth and brusquely licks a small black calf, which in its turn pushes into her flank in search of warm warm milk. An old ewe's bawling for a misplaced lamb a couple of fields away. It's a sound to break your heart.
A first bat flutters and the kitchen lights look welcoming indeed.