The sun is now setting, at half past eleven.
The days are long with their late to bed, early to rise, sun routine.
This evening a fog has settled in. Thick and soft, like the cotton fibres inside a duvet.
A gentle breeze is blowing the sheep's wool, that hangs in tufts on the barbed wire.
There is not a sound, the fog seems to have muted the island into silence. Like falling snow.
The cockerel is quiet, and the goats lay fast asleep. Even the hatchling are not making a peep.
I almost feel guilty making this click and tap typing noise.
Just a few more pages to edit, before I turn in for the night.
As such, I'll bid you good night.