I’ve met your barrel-chested creatures in the fields and witnessed a deer transform as we sang amidst ankle cutting stubble. Emus sprinted across plains, and a powerful poet reminded me that a campfire was all one needed. We spent nine days sewing and laughing as ‘90s pop songs played through our 5,000 kilometres of seed stitching.
Your charm is in simple gestures — smiles, greetings, and stray farm dogs. Light softens your terrain, making even imposing machinery appear gentle. I couldn’t help but think of the film Gladiator and its famous opening grain scene, where pre-violence brings profound stillness.
The water monsters, the Axolotls at the pub, beckon like sirens, reminding me of the possibilities of regeneration even in a muddy tank. In your presence, the anxiety of ambition and agri-art’s careerism waned. I didn’t want to subject you to tokenism or similar contrivances, nor did I aim to romanticise or infantilise. Instead, your vocal totems, the wildflowers in the gaps, were my focus.