Looped Ground

Seen from far enough above, effort becomes pattern. The long discipline of cultivation flattens into markings on the earth, and whoever did the work has gone out of the frame entirely.

What remains is the shape of use. The land carries the geometry imposed on it long after the imposing stopped, holding those divisions the way skin holds an old scar, without resentment and without much interest.

Only the water refuses the arrangement. It loops, doubles back, returns to where it began, indifferent to every boundary drawn across it, and it will still be doing that when the boundaries are gone.

Cool and wide, it opens a space outward rather than filling it, lending depth to a wall the way a window does.