The structure grains, and under it, a looming. Hands knowing hands, know a cut, trace it. In fields of hybrid, the weather blooms, igneous below an immense openness. This place is for hearing. This place will not hear you. Far from any precipice, this hand, graining. Stalk a prayer to parentage. This cut will bruise. A field structures the horizon, cut with harvest. A scythe is a prayer that curves. This looming, hybrid reach; a form to accommodate the field. Then, a tempest. Rush of wind, gorged on vastness. Hands against hands. This earth of forms and trace. Bruised horizon, grained with igneous knowing. Below, the valley traces the precipice of parentage, each hand a looming scythe. This cut will cut. Caught in the rush of combine, hands trace a politics of harvest. This stalk will bloom. This gorging is not for you. Grain reaches for the bruise of distance, fields a tempest against accommodation. A prayer is a structure that politics, combines fields into immensity, scythe against horizon. Hands open the valley and fill it. This earth of hands and cut. Hear how igneous weathers the curve: how distance becomes grain.