Patterns in a (mono) chromatic field. Rows of corn stalks arc’ing away and stubbling the field’s face - overgrown and unkempt through winter, shaved smooth and tilled under in spring. Sky blue, then light purple: the sun takes a long time to set, and you can see the horizon in every direction.
They stop at a crossing, apparently lost. Zed blows in his cupped hands, says something about the cold, and consults the map. Marbell gets out of the car and takes off...down the shoulder of the gravel road, up a hill, and into a field with his camera. The terraces are taller, and wilder, than they look from the road, and the ground is hard to walk on. A hundred yards in front of him sits an abandoned pickup truck. Zed finally catches up.
- Hey...
(nothing)
- Hey, what in the hell are you doing? I’m talking to you, hey!
- Look at this. This place is like the end of the world.
Two miles away north, a silhouette of a maple tree looks like a house. At your feet a dead bird like a frozen glove. And south, back toward town, the grain elevator (the new one) looks like a rocket. Red lights and steam.
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