Instruction I received for meeting a Short-Eared Owl

Try to be small. Look at the tiny leaves of the heather. Envy the snowflake fingers of the sphagnum,  concealing with a dab of fraudulent green that it is little more than water in waiting. Do not despair at the patience of the lichen, aspiring over decades to the greatness of an empire that would fit on the tip of your talkative tongue. Listen closely to the masterclass of midges. Seek the acquaintance of the vole whose tunnel, here at your feet, can now barely accommodate your finger but into which you must pass, whole and entire. This is the open fell and your bulk is abhorrent. Try to be small.

Try to be still. No, don’t worry. You will never be still enough to avoid detection. See the sun’s yolk poached in the burning blue sky near the end of this cloudless day. Does it fidget and fret as it goes to meet the darkness? Study the rolling wave that is Wild Boar Fell and ask yourself if it seems in a hurry to break on the shore. Ask the advice of the tortured rowan tree, more scar than bark, its fingers gouging the soft flesh of limestone. Has it considered relocating? These are the heights of the Pennines and your jittering is an offence. Try to be still.

But when will he come? Will it be soon?

He is already here. Twenty feet above you, inspecting the back of your skull, just above where it joins the vertebrae. Try your best to be quiet now.

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