walking down towards priory farm a light breeze teases the oilseed rape pods. it rattles the jet black seeds inside their crisp pods - a chorus of quivering maracas accompanying the twenty-four hour thrum of the combine harvester.
at the edge of the field a hare sits motionless. we pause. both waiting for the other to make the first move.
two male whitethroats dart out from the corn stalks. they spit rasping warning cries at each other before chasing off in dissension.
sundown burnishes the landscape. each ear replete. only hours away from the ravage of the combine harvester.