We strode the fields.
The sheep stared, turned and bolted.
The tractor was getting louder. It was no longer just a puttering sound. The tractor was now a physical object. A blood red Massey Ferguson. We froze.
Started to stare, turned and bolted.
This particular signifier signified big trouble.
Fortunately there was a bank of prickly gorse bushes and viscous nettles to dive into. We embraced the razor prickles and accepted the stinging caresses of the friendly nettles as if they were long lost friends.
The tractor stopped dead.
We stopped dead.
Only the sheep continued to show any signs of sentience, initiative and intelligence. They bleated and wandered philosophically while we lay timidly trembling and wondering what to do next.
We were faced with a problem of agricultural proportions. Several acres, I'd say, of trouble.
As the crow flies.