One figure on the knife-edge of a dune, the wind already filling his footprints behind him.

Meltwater splitting and rejoining across the valley floor between rhyolite hills.

Rain a centimetre deep over the flats and the sky laid out twice. Four people walking into it, keeping to the horizon line.

The fissure opened overnight. By dawn the lava had found the valley floor and the steam was lit from underneath.

A figure standing still in the grass while the flock turns once overhead and leaves.

Camelthorn trees nine hundred years dead, standing in the clay pan under the red dunes.

A single road laid across the fjord on a line of stone, the mountains standing in the water.

Harvested salt raked into cones along the pans, drying in the late afternoon.

Black sand and the last light on the ridge, the tide pulling silver lines back across the beach.

Standing on the salt crust at two in the morning, the Milky Way the only light for a hundred kilometres.

The beach from four hundred feet, the swell drawing a clean white curve along the sand.