I got a rare old telling off this morning by a stone marten. This is what they sound like when they get rattled.
The marten in the alder tree growls his anger, not at the world, not at the government, not at the chemical company, the education system, climate change nor even the price of petrol. The marten rages at me, the human who stands beneath the tree and stops him getting down and back to business.
Such a circumscribed vision, he has, that extends perhaps fifty yards, concerned only with trees, foxes and windfalls, raising young and living another day, and the human who stands, obstinately in the way among the cut brambles beneath the alder.
The world turns
blue as a jay’s wing—
will it storm?