I wake up in the middle of our walk. At least, that seems to be what has happened. This tree, here, is certainly more vibrant, harder, real than the one a few paces earlier. Was there even then a tree to be seen? Now the grass is cold and icy. It has formed itself from a mist. Daisy is busy. Her warmth is melting the earth around her – a shaggy black sun. She scampers up to me, nudging my leg. What power in her nose! This must be the beginning of our walk, I say, kneeling down to give her head a scratch. I allow my other hand to touch the grass. To my surprise, it is rough, like sandpaper. No, says Daisy. She is quite straightforward, all matter-of-fact. It is the middle.