I saw an owl hunting over the field a couple of days ago. It was just dawn, what the old folk called the time between times, when they believed the veil between the natural world and the magical world was at its thinnest and could sometimes be breached.

As the dog snuffled her way through clumps of meadow grass, a light grey flat-faced bird swooped and glided, making the occassional aborted stoop, ignoring me and the mutt, harrying its prey across the field. I could hear the dog snorting and chuffing as she rooted, and, between her breaths, the susurration of air over the owls wings as the sun struggled against the shadows and the mist.

I saw a Kingfisher a few months back. It was so near perfect it looked like it was superimposed on reality. Watching the owl hunt through the haze and birth of a new day was another one of those moments. Sometimes nature has a way of making you take a deep breath and count your blessings.