It was 1st April and a late afternoon walk across the farm. The wheat was just pushing through, a green haze across fields. A yellowhammer called from a scrubby oak. Five hares ran along tram lines.
February. Pink sun on silver frost. I see the hares. Out of the oilseed rape, across the ditch, onto the plough. Three hares running.
It lifts the spirits this early morning race. Tugged by sap rising, March hares starting early, putting life into empty fields. Too...