In amongst the low, spindly trees that grew so stubbornly against the salty wind and coarse sand, the birds were reveling in the twilight.
Their calls made a cacophony of sounds; gulls, starlings, the small hopping nectar eaters and the large soaring wind riders all shouting it into the few moments that are left of the sun.
They herald it's decent as it touches the sea on the horizon.
The air is hot. Muggy, with blue sky peeking from the small gaps in the grey clouds from which the sun descends.
The leaves on the trees are still, the absence of movement giving the usually wind blustered stretch of coast an unsettling feeling of anticipation.
From the west, the rolling boom of thunder travels on the still air, over miles of sea.
It barely reaches the few hardened trees at the shore; the sound so distant one might wonder if they had heard it at all.
It approaches slowly, almost gently — and the earth around it holds its breath.
The birds cry out to the setting sun, and the storm replies.