Irridescent blue flashed from under a log and he was away along the river bank at twenty miles an hour and soon lost to sight. Kingfisher. Ruing the heavy tread of my boots that started him away,  but content to enjoy the more static patterns of very thin ice topping the Kis Duna on a misty morning.

Frost is melting on remaining leaves, the twigs and branches and falling in random patters, as particles of the sun’s light start to feel their own way to the cold ground. I’m off collecting conkers.

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