One colossal thistle head stands black and alone against unbroken snow, drawn up into a tall twisted spire, the twist legible as cords of material wrapping it at a constant angle, the deformation legible entirely as line so the cords and creases read as drawn marks. Low sun directly behind the form so it goes to flat silhouette, the sky blown pale around its edge, shadowless. The form a dense tangle of line, the white absolutely empty around it. One person alone in a cobalt jacket, walking away up a slope, tiny — about one fiftieth of the frame's height, too small to read a face. Severe and graphic, closer to a woodcut than a photograph.