British Summer Time, the forward shift of clocks by an hour, has blown in on a gale straight off the North Sea. Hailstones are spat at the window. Some of the ice pellets stick before slipping slowly; disintegrating as they slide, leaving a tear stain on the pane.
The hazel bush flexes in the gusts, before springing back to a position south of upright, unable to fully right itself.
Blue tits make brisk trips to the jangling feeders dangling on the frame. Flights are brief hops. No stopping for rest as rest is impossible when balance so precarious.
The wind strokes the pasture. The grass becomes fluid; water running up hill.