They Glided down so silently, It wasn't an Illusio

The garden was still.

Whilst the rest of the UK had bathed in glorious sunshine, Ayrshire was smothered in a veil of low hanging gray cloud.

The air was still. Washing hung limp on the line, drying in the heat of the air, and not the breeze.

It was eerily silent, and still, and then they came.

First one, then in twos, and threes, and then so many we couldn't count.

On the grass, on the bushes, on the Pus' Castle, on the Bench. They sat. They watched. We waited. Breathless.

When they had absorbed everything they needed, they disappeared.

Back to the mother ship.