By Corinna Cook
It starts with the thunk of a probe hitting the frost layer. Then the corer revs up, clangs down. Makes a borehole in the bog. What kind of animal are we, anyway? A kind that walks on surfaces without a compass. Does our best. Does our worst. Wonders at the things-beneath, the depths we can’t get to without making them into surfaces of their own. A kind of animal that squishes around, pulls frozen peat from under the bog then fumbles when cold bolts into our hands, concerned suddenly with etiquette over the ancient underground’s brown chill, its sloppy surprise.