The morning broke in that hushed, pewter light that only November seems to know still, cool, and edged with the quiet promise of winter. Yesterday, the hides at Wildlife Dreams were alive with the sharp, restless energy of Sparrowhawks, their swift silhouettes carving across the damp air.
But today felt different slower, heavier, as though the land itself was pausing to breathe.
It began with a stirring overhead: three Buzzards, each distinct in plumage and flight, wheeling together as though choreographed by the wind. Their cries echoed faintly, rolling down the valley a kind of wild hymn. Then, as if the moment had been waiting for it, a Goshawk appeared. Broad-winged, silent, purposeful it moved with the cold grace of something that belongs wholly to the winter woods.
On this Remembrance Sunday, as poppies bloom in memory and the year turns towards its quiet close, the sight felt deeply fitting. The stillness, the circling Buzzards, the sudden flash of the Goshawk all reminders of resilience, continuity, and the enduring pulse of the wild.
A morning to remember, indeed.
