Its humid. A buttercup path leads towards hanging clouds. Ahead of us, on a fencepost, a small brown bird. Colour blind in poor light I hallucinate; a homely Robin amongst cotton grass? Whatever next! He comes purposefully towards us, rising close above our heads, pauses for a moment; then climbs, vertically, wings and heart pumping a torrent of staccato song across his fiefdom. Skylark, of course. We enter the rock dreaming field where sandstone, wind, and water, perform archaic conversations, where Curlews, in twos and threes, improvise horizontal music. melodious fluting whistles accelerate and merge into a rhythmic bubbling trill Often the females migrate in June Leaving the males to tend the young. A tapestry of gleaming sound completes this climax of muted tones draws me down towards a feather discarded by Numenius arquata or perhaps a Short Eared Owl? barred on a white ground dusted with cinnamon. Identification gets tricky in this habitat of similars Two species with one solution to ground nesting in rough pasture. Birdlike, I settle on a recumbent stone Suspended in light the Mineral Queen sleeps.