Here’s looking at ewe, kid

I STOPPED by the copse, where the track enters the trees, on the lightest evening of the year. Even at 10pm, I could see clear across the quiet valley, the breeze stirring the creamy barley and the thirsty brown cattle drinking from the trough in the meadow. The hay had just been cut, the bales stacked in towers, and the mown ground glowed, as if lit from underneath. Getting out of the car, the pale sky was gentle and warm and it seemed to me then that winter never had been and never