The cock reads the field, scratches and examines, calls the hens To show them the trick. A worm, attempting to run back into the ground, is yanked out and gulped down in one gulp. In summer there is no cow on the field of ice and blue thundercloudberries may be picked in the woods. The wild strawberry bleeds against the tongue with no taste of blood. Life then is fully involved with what it is: an attempt at paradise. The rows of cabbage heads puff into their chubby selves, knotting themselves for their purpose early, closing themselves tighter and firmly in their own leaves against snails. Tightly bundled up in the mornings dewily green, they reach kilo weight and market price.