Inside the draughty hangar we would sort and pack the heavy crop that broke our backs to excavate with boot on spade and frozen hands, beneath a light that generated heat for twice the working rate. A pair of rabbit kits halted production as the rollers shunted them against the chute’s steel wall. Soft as wet clay aborted by the harvester, they shook in the machine’s cold arms, and we knew that we had reaped too much. (an earlier version pub. by Atrium)