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A DEWY MORNING; a Heron flies up from the brook, and I notice it trails its legs behind it in flight, unlike one that I watched on Monday, which tucked them in.
On the woodland floor, about sixty heads of a fungus grow in an eight foot long crescent under the trees by the old quarry. They look, to me, like the Oyster Mushroom, an edible species that grows on old logs. Perhaps a fallen bough is buried amongst the leaf litter.
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At the other end of the scale, a Wren hops up on the window frame for a moment.
At the side of the pond a Blackbird is bathing enthusiastically.
On the tree-shaded, north-facing, slate roof of some old outbuildings, a cushion moss (Tortula muralis?) has grown colonies up to the size of the bread roll you might be given with a hot dog. They look soft and furry but some have a reddish halo of spore capsules.