Gloaming Tree Fall

I ran up by the bold burn to the three road junction. Not quite dark. Ink blot tree copses, pale grey snake of a road, puddles flashing with light as I came to them, like cats eyes. Not black enough to engender the glimmer of primal anxieties.
I wanted to climb one of the beech trees at the head of the crossroads; to rise above the ground in the gloaming, hugging the tree, listening to the night sounds` approach.
I chose one and pulled myself up six feet, reached for a stump which broke in my hand launching me out and down to the ground on my back, my fall  cushioned by coppice shoots.
Climbing to my feet, feeling my heart thud, I tried again, more careful this time, and rose up in a spiral round the young adult tree. Stopped and listened. Breathed in the sound of a hooting owl. Sinewed down again and trotted home, winding down the track, my sight diminishing, senses of hearing and imagination waxing.