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  • Writer's pictureCrone

The day I saw eight eagles

OK, they were fighter planes. McDonnell Douglas F-15 Eagles, to be precise. Or at least I think that's what they were. Very loud, that's for sure. And eight of them.

I felt like I was in a war. That the planes were flying off to bomb someone. Maybe they were. I should check the news.

More excitingly, earlier I saw three roe deer. Or at least, I think that's what they were. They were in the field below me. They'd seen me and stood watching. All three then turned and bounded to the edge of the field where they watched me again. I did not move. The dog was sniffing at something else. They left the field and I couldn't tell which way they'd gone.

The dog and I ran down to where I thought they had been standing. I was searching for prints. I told the dog to help. He did not. Had they been foxes or hares he would have. Clearly deer are not in his scent vocabulary. I found one print. It was strange: so much damp mud but they left hardly a sign.

This tracking and trailing has become part of my routine. The two previous days, I'd inspected the marks made by creatures either crossing rivers or going to drink. There were no prints that I could make out. I was wondering about otters and stoats, water voles and water rats, foxes and deer, but I couldn't tell. On these occasions the dog came and inspected with me. He was somewhat interested. Especially in one place where he risked sliding into the water.

I want to see the animals. I want to hide with the animals.

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