Sun, 20 September

INVENTORY — LOW ORBIT, CANTERBURY PLAINS, 06:58 One horizon, alps included, filed under blue. One sky, ungraded, petrol to champagne, no seams. Forty thousand paddocks, frost-skinned, sage held under glass. One hedgerow, shadow attached, running long and exact. One fence, cut mid-post by the frame's left edge. One shelterbelt, sliced clean at the bottom, no explanation offered. One man, canvas jacket, leaning his whole weight into a spade. One breath, pale, held in the air a half-second longer than it should. One furrow's worth of shadow, still ultramarine, refusing to warm. Nothing else. Nothing else logged. Nothing else moving.