Shadows flit across the screen as the morning light from the window is briefly obscured.
A welcome new swirl of swallows has returned – to join the lonely pair installed for the last three weeks. Chaffinches copulate at the yard. The chucks are joined by these small birds along with rival cock pheasants circling each other warily and secretive mallards.
My thoughts are on bigger things – notably Billy the bull. How to stop him flattening gates and trouncing fences to reach his usurper son running with the younger females on the other side of the small farm?
I have an idea to separate the animals into three groups with the yearlings in the centre of the farm around the house to provide a buffer between the competing breeding groups.
I will include the anomalies in this area – Moira and her errant child George the halfcalf.
Miniature, pot-bellied and dim – he has handicapped himself terribly by refusing the milk in Moira’s swollen teats- but now grazes assiduously. I am afraid at two months he is not ready for a completely grass diet so I want to keep him close – as does his mother, in spite of being snubbed.
Billy is blessedly quiet behind the gate this morning. His ladies look settled in their new woodland home – Morag and Flora are accompanied by vital, bright-eyed babies.
Moira is not.
Where is he? He should be here. Has his perverse determination to survive finally failed?
I spot the russet scrap behind a birch tree – on the wrong side of the fence.
Head down –
as if his life depended on it.