I watched a barn owl hunting this morning. It flew low over the tussocky grass beside the river upstream from us, tilting and turning, close enough that I could see its buff and white softness. I crouched, mesmerised, the dogs gathered beside me, until they grew restless and whimpered to get on.
By contrast, everything else is waiting quietly. The sow, a couple of weeks from farrowing, moves ponderously. The cows, close to their calving, seem almost passive. They display all the patience attributed to their breed, browsing and cudding and dozing. Life on the farm is pregnantly poised.
