he January day was
to rest on the hedge
Kevin Hurley was digging
cold with a grey sky that seemed
at the end of the unploughed field.
a drain. He was wrapped in a grey
overcoat in the narrow tractor cab， a dirt-caked sack on the
metal seat beneath him， tentacles of cold exploring his legs
inside his mud-splashed Wellingtons. His father s legs were
also cold， blue-veined shanks frozen stiff from toe to knee.
Cold gripped the surrounding hedges and the small animals
they sheltered， and the gap-toothed wind that came down
from Slieve Bloom in the north broke twigs off trees and
hissed at the loose door of the cab. The warmth of his life
seemed to have evaporated forever. Summer and autumn had
made way for winter， and yet he was only in his fortieth
year. Cold weather， cold clothes， cold flesh， cold clay. His
father would fail to wake from sleep one morning， and then
he and Maureen would be alone.
A solitary crow rose over a hedge and dipped twice as it
fled before a whirring tail wind. In this same field on a warm
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