“The wind,” she said, taking her pencil to the side of her mouth just for a moment. “Hey,” I said to the girl, who when I turned around was already looking at me, sucking the end of her pencil. I looked up out the window to where the farm’s greenhouse stood and saw the glass was all broken. I put them back down and moved over to tomatoes, but they weren’t any good either. Normally the potatoes from that place were good, but they all gave a little bit when I picked them up. Around her eyes was the faint redness that came after a night of crying or drinking. She wore a thick green tracksuit and her hair was in a ponytail. She blushed but gave me the smallest of acknowledgements. She looked up at me, then looked back down like she was embarrassed. The pale daughter of the owner was there, doing a crossword. There was never any trace of the free guinea pigs and I had passed the point of being able to ask. The farm shop at Marling had a warped and faded sign at the foot of its gate that read FREE BABY GUINEA PIGS. When I turned to look, five of them sat in a row on the same branch, eyeing me but not speaking. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and breathed in and out heavily to get rid of the blood smell. “What are you laughing at?” I shouted at the crows and lobbed a stone at them. I pulled up my collar and shielded my eyes with my hand. The rain started to come down, and a sudden gust of wind flung sheep shit at the back of my neck so it stung. With the trees rattling in the copse and the sheep blaring out behind me, the same trees, the same wind and sheep.

Like a mad woman, listening to her own voice, the wind shoving it back down my throat and hooting over my open mouth like it had done every morning since I moved to the island. I’d been up that morning, before the light came through, out there, talking to myself, telling the dog about the things that needed doing as the blackbirds in the hawthorn started up. I shoved my boot in Dog’s face to stop him from taking a string of her away with him as a souvenir, and he kept close by my side as I wheeled the carcass out of the field and down into the woolshed. Crows, their beaks shining, strutting and rasping, and when I waved my stick they flew to the trees and watched, flaring out their wings, singing, if you could call it that.

Another sheep, mangled and bled out, her innards not yet crusting and the vapours rising from her like a steamed pudding.

All the Birds, Singing by Evie Wyld