A bitter expanse of freshly plowed field for a winter crop stands ripped open as the farmer unhitches the massive blindered horses, their sweat steaming, rising. It’s time to return them to the barn for a meal they crave but cannot yet smell. Within minutes acres of dark brown furrows disappear under a descending white horde of seabirds, searching out newly exposed grubs and appearing as some huge pallet. Then an invisible hand and brush dabs as they flap and rise together. Within seconds, behind their great wing spans, they’ve blotted out the blue horizon above and beyond the field.
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"Classic"
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