Two wandering men, who long ago met on a trail far away, cross paths again to follow a line of inquiry into what it means to become seed. Seeds are designed-to, and love to move. It is a temporary aberration in an otherwise rooted existence; perhaps that’s why these nomadic men feel resonance, or perhaps it’s because seeds also love to root, something these men sense a truth in, yet are hard-wired away from. 

Foraging walks fill hessian sacks with seeds: those chipped from a hard-black night, folded seeds curled like a dying sun, and those looking like snowflakes made of silk. To become one with seed, one might also become the medium they fall towards: clay-heavy fertile ground. And so the textured light falls, pregnant with words, on a body clayed and full of seed.
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Let the scattering be done, let the appropriate stories take root.