As night comes on and the west yellows among the clouds, brown owls begin to call. Everything else is very still; the cattle move noiselessly in the meadow yonder, the sheep lie together under the green oaks. Then a breeze comes, the boughs rustle, moving clouds obscure the light, and the owls start their call. The clouds pass, the moon shines out, the trees strike all sorts of shadows. It is curious how the brown owls seem responsive to this waywardness of harvest evenings.

Source: The Guardian September 11, 2016 21:22 UTC