The wind at that height is chilling, though the late sun is still strong. Cottontails of bog-grass thrum in the wind, glowing like gas mantles. Four kestrels, strung in a ragged low line above the moor to my west, hold their positions with grace against the wind. I gorge on the glut of light, the fetch of space. Reaching a jumble of boulders I stand on the highest stone, face east and lean a little into the wind, feeling the push of its hand on my chest – holding me in part-flight, kestrelling me.
