The cattle go to the slaughterhouse, the horses to rodeos. But Mr Williams is stomping mad.

Sitting at the back of your bike, I held a bunch of rose, the crimson rose, with my hairs unbounded in the wind all way long.

Spring had come early that year, with warm quick rains and sudden frothing of pink peach blossoms and dogwood dappling with white stars the dark river swamp and far-off hills.