Like a giant loaf of bread, the horse box ferments in the orchard. It slowly bakes in July. Stains of previous winters sprinkled like flour on its aluminium walls. Crusts of lichens. Blooms of moss. It has been a long time since any horse set four feet in here. The boughs of the trees shed apples that bounce on the thunderous roof. Leaves settle on the stationary wipers. The tyres, half-flat as if too tired to go all the way: sink into the rubbery grass. In this way, life gallops by.