A plump pheasant, shining like he was a son of the sun, his coat made from the brightest of the earth-fallen leaves, strutted through the meadow of dried stalks and world-weary leaves. Seeds swirled in the air around him, little brown capsules searching out a new life. Some flew boldly towards the clouds, the gentle wind carried them until they could see the haphazard patchwork of country below them, a thousand new places to find a home. Others busied themselves among the dead heads of the flowers, perfectly content with staying close to their known world. But then the men walked through the hedgerows, wrapped in their charcoal tweeds and wool, and everything in the vicinity scattered.