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There is a short stretch of the Grand Union which diligently
follows the old line of the River Rea, where it flowed over two hundred years
ago. I emerged to meet it from beneath a succession of bridges where the light
streaks through the gaps in a succession of greys, eerily vibrant in the sun.
The beginning of, what would have been, the river was marked in bright orange
by a cast-off life buoy.
Above, a buzzard drifted through the air – wings flat, gliding left and right and harassed by a crow. Both were silhouetted against the winter-blue sky, the buzzard gently weaving, like the old river I thought. The crow flapped inelegantly, but barely interrupted the buzzard’s soft flight. I concluded that it must have caught some prey, which the crow had determined now might belong to it. Four pigeons orbited nearby, seemingly deciding whether to involve themselves, but they thought better of it. They departed the scene, and the shadowy dance of buzzard and crow continued off into the distance, till their pairing was only a single chalky smudge on the otherwise clean canvas of sky.
Photographs by Jen Dixon
