Above the town

Early morning from a height: red roofs in grids, tree-lined streets, and the forest closing in at the edges.

Up early on the hill above town, with the sun just clearing the ridge. From that height the place stops being streets and becomes pattern: red roofs in rows, avenues of trees, gardens the size of a thumbnail.

The higher frames are the ones that work. Everything that matters at ground level — a car, a hedge, a washing line — is a coloured square, and the whole town reads at once.

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