"Winter in the English countryside, dead pheasants are hanging everywhere. On people's front doors and gates, left by someone who's shot too many and thinks the recipients would be glad of a roast. Shocking but true and there they hang, in all their multicoloured beauty, or lying on the side in someone's kitchen or at the butcher's. They run across the road in front of cars in the lanes, no flight, a stupid weaving like a drunk across the path of oncoming cars. I find them beautiful, even when no longer alive. For a while at least."