Colder than cold. White doves lift-drop-turn around Fanshawegate; a kestrel held high above the windmill on the Lydgate horizon. Sheeps dit-dot the fields below sugar sifted top of Totley Moss. The light is electric at my favourite ash tree. We stop, look, slow the pace despite freezing fingers and paws.
It's bitterly cold isn't it? There's a dusting of snow outside my window, it will be lovely around Fanshawgate if it snows properly.
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