The wheat leans in every direction, but has its own life. A field is a private domain—no one knows that, how little of the field is public, how little of it you can really find. Being there, in any picture, means you agree to getting lost; you consent to lying down or being led around, your condition less important with each step, your belongings soon forgotten. The trees jostle one another, olive-olive, cypress-cypress, and on the horizon, the hills repeat themselves into a neverending blue. As clouds float through their positions, shapes rolling across without fanfare (all afternoon, a lazy proceeding), the land below it seems to tremble, as if by orchestrated force, a set of winds blowing on the wheat and riding it. I want it to stop: the beauty is wild, overwild. Where can I find a picnic, a family, on a Sunday, with a blanket and wine, as seems fitting? A hint of a road in the lower right corner, yes, some signs of a cart, trampling, a trip through it, but all of this to no avail. People don’t belong.