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As the warming hues of golden hour begin to fade towards the cooler blues of night,
I stand, part of the woodland edge's furniture - listening, feeling, soaking it in.
The familiar sweet heady scent of Bluebells fills the air, mixed with the pepper spice of Fescue pollen.
Diurnal birds boldly sing out their evening lullaby and somewhere a horse whickers softly, locating its friends before nightfall.
From the delicate heads of Daisies now cossetted within their petal duvets, to the just woke energy of a passing perky pipistrelle.
This is where I belong, the place from whence no other holds a draw, this, is home.
An Owl hoots as he glides overhead, announcing that,
With night's chill countenance, it is time, for I too to sleep.
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