At the time of the worm moon, when earthworms rise through topsoil, leaving casts as evidence, I remembered a field that Owen John Owen – shepherd, neighbour and frequent outdoor companion during the years I lived in Cwm Pennant – once showed me, years ago, under this same last full moon of winter. I thought to revisit, as I have done on many subsequent occasions, and re-experience its magic. We’d come out of the Cross Foxes in Garn – the local farmers’ pub – after one of the lock-ins that were frequent in those days. As dawn approached, the moon rose, silvering the craggy profiles of the hills. “I want to show you something!” Owen John said. We drove to where field walls descended and fanned out towards in-bye land of Nantcyll. Views widened. We glimpsed both coasts of the Llŷn peninsula. We took a path that rose gently towards Mynydd Graig Goch, slipped through a gate and sat in a moon-shadowed corner of the mountain wall, the slope beneath illuminated. The winter-grey grass at this altitude hadn’t the sheen of new growth then. The same is true today. Looking down across the pasture, drystone field-dyke at my back, ancient hut circles clearly visible nearby, the ground now, as then, seems to seethe with wild movement. I focus my glass. The field is alive with hares. The grey tint of their winter coats has not yet moulted to give way to rich russets of summer. It coordinates perfectly with a spectral hue in the grass. The activity in the field captivates. I count 60 hares. There were surely more. The chasing, leaping and bounding, the mutual pursuits, are breathtaking. So is their fearlessness. Two race past within feet of me, so close I can hear their breath, feel the thump of mighty hind legs. Farther into the field, a group of does nibble grass unconcernedly, awaiting their moment. Beyond them, jack hares squat on their haunches or stand bolt upright in a perfect circle, elders of the hare tribe, peaceful, calmly debating territory where soon all will be mayhem.