It had the brow of Foucault or maybe Agamben. Fluid, unsettling, always on its way to somewhere else, flowing like morning mist, curling curious fingers around the trees, pleased with the forest and the moist rotting ground. Dipping so low where it kissed the earth it might not exist there at all. Only the briefest pause hints at a raised brow, a hill forming somewhere beyond the known horizon, casting shadows across the ground. Coming to rest, finally, on the verge of lost and found.

Kay Cunningham