Photo by James Kelly-Smith on Unsplash I used to think these hills were dead: parched and sheep worn, grass barely clinging to an undercarriage of moss, and the ponies  digging for foals in bottomless pools  of placid aether, where the peat bog bubbles our carbon half life. Stonedust leavens in clouds as I stamp my way, and their hooves kick up peals of tumbled stones  in the crinkled haze of this effervescent dew— there is a bleating on the wind, clouds raking in the wool,