Beady birds string the electric wires. Either side of Dog’s head an ear is in full flight. I press over the chunky treads of tractor, listening. Cut sticks of rapeseed respond with a percussional plink, while hollow wheat stalks ring like wind instruments. We play to the sky, which looks to be dissolving, into the dip the river inhabits; out of sight it disperses, into the bumpy flow of the Tamar, taking our music with it; takes it all the way to the ocean. Fish will hear the earth sing. There are many wheat fields so I use the marker of the church spire to keep direction. Dog jumps straw hurdles until she lies belly up at the field edge, steaming, and has only the energy to flick her tail. While she cools her core, a palmful of blackberries travel one by one into my mouth. I can’t see the spire from here. We could easily be lost, and not mind about it at all.