Frames from the road.

Flags and palms under the same sky. Maybe that's why the palms are easier to look at. Three flags and two palms have been given the same sky, uniform and shamelessly blue. The wind makes no distinction between them — it pulls

The path doesn't end suddenly; it goes quiet, like a sentence spoken softer and softer. The path goes down and gets thinner with every bend. It does not end suddenly — at some point it simply stops being visible, like a sentence spoken more and more

On the sand, the footprints of yesterday's people and one orange speck of today's. The pier still burns yesterday's lights. The beach still belongs to nobody. The sand carries the tracks of yesterday’s people and none of today’s, apart from one orange dot on the left.

Every few seconds the wave redraws the border, as if the first time it came out crooked. From above everything is simpler: stone here, sand here, water here. There is one border and it is white, and the wave redraws it every few seconds, as though it had come

Arms spread wide on the low wall. The canyon accepts every gesture, and the skirt knows about the wind first. Someone has climbed onto the wall and spread their arms, as though to take hold of something that cannot be taken hold of. The canyon has nothing against it. It

The fog took the horizon. Maybe you have to stop seeing far to see what is close. The water breaks in three places at once, then in a fourth, and there is no way of watching all of them. The backs come out and go back in as though it took no effort at all.

Beams laid across, one after another, like sentences in a letter you can't read in one go. The path does not pretend it will be easy. It has laid its beams across, one after another, like sentences in a letter you cannot read in one

The pillar carries a single tree on its head like a crown it worked a long time for. The pillar stands on the very edge and carries one tree on its head, as though it were a crown it had to work a long time for.

It broke into rays, and the wet sand passed all that light right up to your feet. The sun got tangled in the palms and broke into rays. Nobody is to blame — the trees simply happened to be standing where it was coming down.

It won't go down to the water or up the hill, so it doubles back on itself for a hundred miles. The road holds on to the slope with both hands. It does not want to come down to the water and it does not want to climb, so it goes sideways and doubles back on itself, and does that

The shadow moves across the slope like something alive, and the flat summit waits its turn. The ridge flattens out at the top and looks like a table laid for somebody who never comes. One rock is left in the middle, like an overturned glass.

Every palm a different height. Below, a last strip of orange, after which you know there is nothing left to wait for. The palms have given up all their colours and been left with the silhouette alone. They stand at different heights, unevenly, like something that grew without a plan and came out

The tower stands empty on an empty beach, and the palms close the day off from the landward side. The tower says plainly that it will not be saving anyone today. It stands on empty sand, blue and honest, and that honesty is the loveliest thing about it.

The air over the canyon is so dry that it drinks the rain on the way down. The rain goes straight down from the clouds, in thin strokes, and finishes somewhere along the way. The air above the canyon is so dry that it drinks it before it can reach the

Tower, streetlamp, trailers, wires. The light doesn't choose whom to grant dignity. The sky is burning from below, as though somebody had set fire to the horizon and forgotten to mention it. The tower stands in the middle of that fire and does not grow any warmer

Rain on the left, blue on the right. The pine stands exactly on the line and won't run. It never has. The canyon has divided itself in two today. On the left hangs a curtain of rain, heavy and grey, and everything behind it has lost its outline. On the right the sky is still

The road doesn't turn; the clouds move across it. Two worlds that meet only where sight runs out. The road has decided not to turn. It goes straight, with the calm of something that does not have to convince anyone it leads somewhere.

It couldn't go around it, so it held it. The sky parts exactly above the middle of that embrace. The river could not go round this rock, so it took it in its arms. The water runs the full arc, patiently, as though it knew the stone would give way in the end — only not today and not

The pink is left on only two peaks. The dark forest at their feet knows nothing is left for it today. The last of the light is left on two summits only. The upper parts are saturated with pink and orange, with all the texture of the rock; lower down the colour goes

It climbs out of the frame. The sun breaks through beside it, as if looking for where it stops. Shot from below. On the right a sheer, pale grey wall goes up and out of the frame — you cannot see where it ends. In front of it stands a row of tall

They come out of the water together, in one line, and nobody overtakes anybody. The dolphins come out of the water side by side, almost in one line — dark backs and fins, and white spray around them.

The full moon wears every crater on the surface, and the rock below catches nothing. The full moon, with all its texture visible, stands high on the left. The sky beneath it is smooth and peach-coloured, brighter the lower it

Under the cypress, a small figure with a violin. The sun goes down to the water as if following the music. The sun is just above the horizon now, to the left of the span. A bright vertical streak grows out of it, and a gold band lies across the water leading to the shore.

Rays come in from above, from outside the frame. Someone left the sky not quite shut. The valley opens away between two walls: on the left sheer and pale, on the right lower granite slopes. Between them a flat floor, overgrown with conifers all the way to the horizon.