Speaker Row, Broken Hill, March

Fourteen posts in a line, each one canted at its own angle like teeth loosened over years, the afternoon light hitting the rust at maybe four-thirty when it goes almost burgundy. I came back to this site three seasons running before the shadows fell exactly where I needed them — long and parallel across the clay, the furrows left by tyres still readable in the ground. The screen frame is just visible at the far edge, bleached to the colour of old bone.