Pink

At dusk or thereabouts I closed the pop-hole of the hen-house-on-wheels. Inside the birds made their crooning, settling down sounds. Hen-talk for 'sleep well.'  All is still and silent and as it should be. Not a breathe; hushed perhaps by the dank mist which has hung over the Long Mountain today.

I stand on the field a while and contemplate the sky. It's pink - not just a slick of cerise on the western horizon but a pale wash in which colour hangs in heavy air, north, south, east and west. Such is the light there is no other colour in the world tonight.