This field lies seemingly abandoned: too impractically-shaped for the efficiency of farm machines. The many grasses grow tall when sun follows rain, when deer make their beds, and all the clearer are the lines made by badgers. From the witches’ stones to the descending hollow, and up toward the warren by the seasonal brook: All trace back to a hole in the ground at the centre of the field, the home of badgers unseen. Much better to avoid canines and their humans, and wait for dusk, when nature’s introverts roam.