I've returned to a land where plants grow upon plants. Bark begets green. Green begets weeds that are worth it.

Bark is always worth looking at, to think how far a seed's travelled, like a fat salmon, panting upstream, spreading out.

The coiled, silver branches have me considering the edge of my known world, particularly when they spring from the wall and reach for the water.

This is a corner of our globe governed by inlets and coves.

I picture Polynesian tattoos, see them as extensions of patterned bark, infinite ferns, and the curling waves that carried men from island to island. The palms and the canoes and the Pacific surf and people atop the surface, riding the surfaces of the earth, all bound together, patterns upon patterns, fashioning each other, growing at different speeds but tracing the same directional curve.

Form builds upon beautiful forms. Solidity and sand and eager growth.

A hay pile looking like a Nepalese yak, moody and overspilling its bounds. I can't remember if a bird appeared in the photo before or after this shot, or whether it's hidden somewhere in the frame.

Elsewhere, red pillows of chaff hanging from trees like body bags happy to be there.

One bush, a constellation of green clots, angular scaffolding, not curved as you might expect from a plant.

But ultimately, all growth is a sky-turned thing.