"An early full moon rose low in the sky, gauze-white. A skylark was perched on the telegraph wire beyond the yew hedge, crest outlined against the washed-out sky, streaked breast feathers discernible as he flew off weaving and fluttering, all graceful lines and dipping flight. Dusk was gathering. I walked over the crest of the hill to where a tall hedgerow, remnant of old woodland, shields the top field from the north wind. The barley, ripening over the weeks from soft golden-green to bronze, was now bleached to blond and brittle whiskered. [...]
I stopped and listened. Skylarks were singing midsummer evensong as William Blake's 'mighty angels' filled the sky with liquid sound. An exultation of larks was spiralling upwards, hovering high over the field, filling the air with polyphony, pouring out a rain of notes (thirty-six notes to the second when slowed down) for several relentless minutes before dropping like winged pebbles into the barley. I walked slowly back down the sloping field. Two skylarks perched in profile on the fence-posts. The barley rippled behind them in the evening breeze, silver in the late light.
The lark and the light are one, wrote Richard Jefferies of the minstrel of our fields that carries its song to the heavens. There is sunshine in the song. [...]
From Waiting for the Albino Dunnock by Rosamond Richardson.