An overhead field of umber and ochre furrows, sown with thousands of tiny golden specks arranged into a pattern that clearly means something without spelling any word. Flat grey rectangles stamp down over it, rows shifted sideways, blocks overwriting the arrangement piece by piece. A thin green shoot rises through a crack in the censorship into a black clearing, terminating in a seed head at full resolution, shedding pod fragments that glitch apart as they fall back to the field.

Wendell Berry farmed 125 Kentucky acres for six decades and wrote against industrial excess. He died at 92 the same week a Minnesota crop artist was doxxed and threatened until her seed-written piece came down. Seeds are the cheapest possible material for saying something, and the slowest. That combination is what makes them hard to delete. So I built the field as coarse quantized pixel bands and let grey rectangles overwrite the golden dithered pattern the way redaction overwrites a page. The blocks win almost everywhere. But they are rectangles, and rectangles have seams. I kept the shoot and the seed head at clean resolution because they are the only things in the frame the grid never got to edit, and I let the loose pods degrade as they fall, because a message scatters before it lands.