December

Through the wet brown carpet of fallen oak and beech leaves, mixed together with a few dark sticks and acorns, almost concealing the black sodden earth, and reflecting in sparkling patches the bright December sun, a big brown toadstool joyfully thrusts skywards. Here and there the brown of the forest floor is broken by the fresh green holly, lighter shaded bramble leaves, rare blades of grass or the whiteness of a tiny feather. Some oak trees stand with unshed leaves golden brown against the pale blue sky. Dogs run, humans walk, high among the bare branches white birds fly. There is moss on the sides of a ditch. Many birds are singing, and twigs are crackling underfoot.