It's almost white. Reflections make illusions of space, imaginary corridors between darker reflections. A bright empty day. Light from sea is brighter than light from rocks. Both make it difficult to see.
Steps come out of clouds.
An almost-silvery watery day. A flock of birds, the letters of a shout, rising from a farm, among plants growing there, and form themselves into a line which they fly along. The sound makes several indistinct words, which form themselves variously into a scarecrow and a windmill. The scarecrow waves its arms in the wind and the windmill turns, speaking of something flying and something explosive and something breaking and useful rolling downhill, an old wrecked car in a quarry, a navigation aid, a broken sign on the headland, a set of tools spilling from a dropped tool box. The wind drops.