A vast dried seed head gone to fine dry filaments, seed heads standing in the litter, pale, pushes up out of a dense low bloom field running to both edges and filling the lower third, the form standing in it in a near-black conifer forest, the frame four-fifths dark, buckled into stacked overlapping lobes, every lobe's surface layered in fine horizontal strata that step across the breaks between them, its structure read in the lit edge alone. Soft even dusk, the sky a narrow pale band at the top and the land below it dark, the light shadowless — and the filaments lit from behind, which is what keeps the frame's separation. The floor dense and unreadable, the form's lit face clean. One person alone in a white robe, walking away from the lens, tiny — about one fiftieth of the frame's height, too small to read a face, low and off centre. Hushed and a little funereal.