A cyclops-eye in the bare land, the lone copse: tree island. A haven for red deer, or safe enough, except for the eyelid-track that brings walkers and their dogs to the island shore. From below, the isle pierces a horizon of pleasant undulations. From above, its true situation: a lowland rut enveleoped by sometimes-wheat-fields. There best to see frigthened herds bolt south or north for thick hedge and treelines where morning dogs do not go.