|Feathers on the beach, Hastings|
There were so many things that I could have chosen. The fire that we had the other night, despite my wanting to hold against against the change of seasons; the iron fish pressed into an asphalt path marking out a walk by the shore at Lowestoft a couple of weeks ago; the fruit foraged this weekend on the Isle of Sheppey, now made into jelly, and mixed with gin; the fluffy fur coat (wool and mohair, really) that I bought second hand on holiday and can't wait to wear when the weather gets colder. Or the flask that we took with us filled with hot water to make tea. We drank it sitting in the car - in a car park, no less, with our egg and cress sandwiches - listening to the results of the Labour leadership. Eat your heart out Martin Parr, I say.
What swung it though was stopping on the marshes on Saturday and setting off a marsh harrier that was close by, being close enough to see those fine feathers at the end of his wings silhouetted against the sky as he rose then watching him soar up and out, seem to stop in the air, and fly on. Too hard for me to capture on film, I just can't get that picture out of my head.
I will have to make do with the fake feathers of the new egg cup which should probably have been logged as d for duck; or like the owl here, e for egg cup.