I’m standing on the edge of a field full of sheep in a light rain that makes the electric fence in the hawthorn fizz. There’s an old wooden style, patched with packing tape, an arrow on a pole pointing across the field to another & a stone spire that points to the sky. The sky comes low to the ground, puts bird song right inside our ears, the sound of lapping water, a stream, the rain on the roof of my hood from within which I’m concealed from the world. All day yesterday I just did manual work, winding gears, turning heavy greased cogs, pulling, pushing industrial doors carved with their birthdays. 1998, 2005, 2009, 2012. Stone work beautifully carved by master masons, numbers with serifs, meticulously precise in every dimension from an era when such things were normal. I turned off the ‘thinking’ yesterday, stared into hedgerows, cornfield grooves, the reflection of sky in water, allowed myself an occasional photograph of a tree, but mostly just ‘brain off’ doing manual stuff, drifting.