After a day of small, close things it was a relief to find plots working at scale. A blue-boarded wall lined with rusty spouts, each throwing a thin arc of water, the whole thing more sound than object.
The best of them was a long scaled form, shingled like a fish or a roof depending on where you stood, curving away toward a still black pool. It read as one clean gesture from the path, which is harder than it looks in a garden.
Three plots, evening light, kept for the range of scale.