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.
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