Soft black clouds chase each other across the face of the white moon. I climb over the stile and walk along one edge of a field that backs on to the wood.
Bullfinches are calling softly from the dark hedgerows, but I don’t bother looking for them – there’s not enough light yet to see the elusive birds, even if they decide to show themselves.
I find another stile and clamber over it, landing on the soft mud and leaves inside the dark wood.
Birdsong reverberates from the foliage and branches all around. Robins whistle loudly, chaffinches chuck and stutter, a wren trills, and a startled blackbird cackles as it flies, panicked, across the footpath.
The first tentative beams of sunlight are seeping through the tops of the trees, making the yellow leaves in the canopy glow, and I can begin to see the lush green moss and fallen leaves at my feet.
A long, loud woo-hoo-ooo rings out from a branch high up. I walk as quietly as I can towards the sound.
The tawny owl’s call echoes again. I scan the dark branches of one tree after another. The bird calls again, this time right above me. I find the dumpy shape of the owl sitting on a branch close to the trunk.
The light picks up some of its brown and speckled feathers, and I can see it move its head. It is now looking down at me.
Tawny owls have a wide range of vocalisations, but this is clearly a male making its territorial call. I hear another owl call – this time a sharp ku-ick, probably a female. I turn in time to see the silhouette of a second tawny owl glide on its broad, rounded wings into the trees above me.
It lands, calls again, then flaps off into the dense centre of the wood. The male looks down at me, and then follows the other owl into the darkness.
When I emerge from the wood, the eastern sky is glowing orange. The bullfinches are still calling as I walk back towards the street lights and the growing buzz of traffic.
