The grass margin of a newly ploughed field spat out a skylark. It broke cover from almost under my feet and darted away over bare earth with a spluttering twitter of alarm. No lark within hearing had, as yet, mounted the sky with song. I looked up into the too-bright sun, where a cloud was passing across. When the cloud went into the blue yonder, it became a flock of birds, bunching and spreading – about 200 golden plovers with narrow pointed wings beating very fast. A few mournful bleats dropped out of the air.
For 20 minutes or so, the plovers were tugged this way and that by conflicting opinions. The leading edge of the flock pulled it down into the furrows. After a shimmer of wings, it disappeared altogether. A string of birds rose from the earth, drawing the whole flock up with it. They veered in front of a screen of poplar trees, flashing white fronts, and then a touch of acid yellow when they flipped, backs to the wind. The plovers rose, dipped and flew immediately overhead, making a terrific whooshing noise, as if someone was blowing hard into the embers of a dying fire. I looked up to see light bellies and black-tipped tails that reminded me of narrow paintbrushes.
Swirling round and round the fields, at first elastic and amorphous, the flock eventually began to line up in formations. The birds were starting to make V-shaped skeins, striking out with purpose, and then closing up and doubling back to the safety of their ploughed landing pad. Do we stay or do we go? On one tentative foray, the flock was split: an offshoot peeled off west into invisibility, then came in sight again and fused with the main group. Such an enthralling sight could only hold me in thrall for so long: I had little time to spare for a limitless cycle of indecision.
I turned away and walked on a little way south. And then turned back. The flock had gone, heading north towards spring on the upland moors.