Decent, fearsome frost and the turnips are bound to the ground. It takes a kick to get them up like, gouging them like eyeballs from their sockets – then I’m staring at clods of ice and the shaws falling away like rotten hair, somehow slippery and rasping in the same cold handful. And the tops are sharp below the shaws, and if you grip them enough in your hand, the blood comes up and your knuckles begin to grind in their pouches.
It’s hard cutting with a shovel and a clean sky above you. The turnips are like rocks, and the steel skids off them. I get jostled around by the beasts, and I lose my footing. Then the sun comes low and hard in the pine trees, and crowds of pigeons stand in the cones and watch me beadily.
Cattle stand in the rising moon. Woodcock stir and wild duck are ready for the night.