There’s ram shit on the patio. The trailer parked at the top of the drive is pressed between the two stone posts. The farmer has set up gates and the trailer’s ramp is ready to snap, its tongue that tastes the berries spat out by last night’s wind. From the passenger seat Ya-bitch is unloaded with a whistle. She leaps high the fence and down over the wall, a fall more than twice my height, into the remains of yesterday’s snow. Her fur is punk wet. Tubby farmer yells instructions. F-bombs sweat in his wax jacket. He waves yellow twine to conduct in twilight. ‘Down Ya-bitch… On Ya-bitch… Cease Ya-bitch.’ The ram runs loops round the topiary and crashes through scrub. I hear breaking sticks. The farmer stumbles up into woodland. Fog shatters round a pigeon’s flap. Ya-bitch’s darts like a rat wired to the grass. Silence in twilight the shadows spread. When the farmer reappears he is a slow trudge with his tail between his legs. Ya-bitch alert, winding in the spaces between her master’s feet, closer than a shadow. The trailer is loaded – gates thrown on board with a sound like bells. A cloud of blue from the exhaust marks defeat. Mist comes down the valley, erasing mountains, tops still snow, cold on scar tissue quarries.
Search the fragments