Found objects (return to when the world was flat) — What’s left behind — Watching grass grow — A scab — Burn scar — Ash mandala — I burn myself in effigy
People from the city go out to the forest, to care for it, to shape it across the seasons.
They’re stewards of the woods, brush cutters, tree keepers.
An artist joins them.
The sun wheels across the sky, the leaves crackle, the snow falls, the fire burns, the spring returns.
For years she imagines her gesture.
A bundle of sticks, arms, legs, a head, a torso.
A cyclical being, a ritual sacrifice.
Fly through the air, land with a crash, disappear incandescent.
Watch your own death in sparks and cinders.
Now it’s back to the asphalt streets.
The world is flat and dry and gray.
Where in the city do the seasons go?
Who gets up? What remains?