In the thick of it
MUD, mud, inglorious mud. Nothing quite like it for boiling the blood. After the back-to-back days of rain came the inevitable consequence: mud. Mud around the hayracks, mud at the entrance to the chicken arks. Mud on the yard, mud on my clothes—even banging a fencing staple into a post spat mud into my eye. Mud on the verge: a long crenellated rut of it, where the left-rear wheel of the tractor perpetually overlaps the corner of the lane.
Mud. It infiltrates everything. A labrador,
