The day is grey and very, very still, self-contained in drowsy introspection. But maybe it’s not sleeping at all but quietly meditating, plotting an event, contemplating crafting its next miracle.
The fog is blurring the silhouette of the trees, like pencil drawings rubbed with a ball of cotton wool. The dark green tops blend in with the pale grey fog and, in the distance, the horizon merges with the never-ending East Anglian sky.
We pass a field with pigs. Pale grey and black ones, ears twitching, eating something off the ground. There’s a sow with large, dangling udders. I think of what they are intended for – to nurture life, and feel slightly queasy at the thought of all these pigs being especially bred for human consumption. Especially bred. The phrase has something metallic and unnatural about it.
Further, there are sheep grazing in an enclosure. Meek, dependent, accepting. …
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