The air is full of sallow seed-down blowing from the goat willow to the south. It is like the first snow flurry of winter but each downflake hangs slower in the air, drifting among trees and bushes, perpetually agitated by eddies and thermals, carrying minute germs of life to wheresoever they may find a hidden lodging.
The bugle is at its best now and I suspect we have more spikes than in any previous year. Perhaps it rather likes wet winters.
