A spectacular dawn. A band of thick cloud on the horizon blocks the light from the rising sun and seems to push it sideways. The ground, where Bob is busy hunting unsuccessfully for moles, briefly lit from below rather than above.
All the village cockerels are in full voice. They appreciate the mornings particular beauty. Deer , mostly in groups of three, briefly appear on the lane then disappear. Above us late partying owls, white feathers visible against the dark, swoop from the plane trees in search of one last snack. They screech. Bob glares at them.
By the time we've wandered up the hill from an unsuccessful fishing trip to the waterfall it's brighter. The mundane industrial bricks that make up the little church burn red in the sunrise . In seven years this is only the second time I've seen it light up like this. About a month ago, as the sun was setting and the atmosphere was full of dust from the Sahara, it did something similar. I chuckle at the thought that this little church is, for a moment, as inspiring as the grandest of cathedrals. A little secret whispered to this early morning dog walker and his companion. A sort of morning all is well with the world benediction.
Along the lane the trees and The Rickety Old Farmhouse don't so much glow as shimmer.