The dry fields sat over waterlogged earth, that, following the rain, that day, those days ago was not so waterlogged anymore. The wet had retreated about 15 inches below the topsoil, and the dirt just looked a grey brown where it could be seen between the patches of turf and lined crop rows of oats one field over. A long way off there are spires and farms and buildings and you cannot see them very well. I am keeping this future apart from closer measures. “Very well.”

There is a distant ocean by a damp town in which I sit and tell you that:

They understand the vacuum as it is not very large. The future or distance is there but it is not firm or very important, it is, however, substantial enough to take some effort for one to ignore.

Each blade of grass begins to bend to one of the four winds.

This is the earth and each poplar tree is situated at one of its four corners. The four corners sit in a straight line approximately three metres apart from each other. They break the wind up into five stream lines and if you were to stand at certain spots in the field you wouldn’t feel it blow. You would feel the white hot calm of windbreak.

I once said,* I have made great effort so far as not to quote myself * that the territory of the liberal man has shrunk to the size of his own front lawn.

You look at me blankly now and I realise I have not said something profound. I reiterate the same thought but with a dry tongue:

Now one of you looks at me and says:

Now I pull my sleeves up so that I can feel the wood of the desk under my elbows. I look out the window as you do the same. Now we have good grip, our olecranal skin holds fast against the varnish and we arm wrestle over my territory. There is a light, loose draft in the air, it fiddles at my wrist, my nose bleeds, a spittle comes out from between your lips and in the wet we lose balance and our limbs pile up. The light in the fixture casts a dull glow over this pile. The window pane condenses as the liquid evaporates and we both recognise that you have won.

I hand over the deeds: a small red book, embossed with gold lettering, spelling out ‘THE AXIOLOGY OF MY TERRITORY’.

And it is full of bland aphorisms.

I am watched as I make my way. I am overcome. I step out of the house onto the front lawn. I walk towards windbreak and climb over the fence which is the field boundary. The aeolian man nibbles at it. He’s wearing a careful look on his face, the kind that tries to tell you that the physical is sometimes to be understood as a reflection of an inner landscape, being expressed as the reaction to an outer environment. He runs a finger along the stripped wood to indicate that it delineates a boundary. A boundary serving to keep something in or something out, human or non-human. I incline my head at this insight. I walk onwards through crop rows until I reach round the back of the house where I see you, moving around behind a small window. I throw a stone at the pane and you look out, then come out - via the back door- and come to sit with me on the wet lawn. The watcher is tired and he closes his eyes.