Cleo Allfrey narrates, struggling to name the colors radiating from the fallowland. Rays of light shoot from the ground, shivering and tasseling from burning stalks, blooming into an unbroken sheet of radiance that defies every existing hue.

She compares the vision to a color from outer space before rejecting that description, settling instead on the idea of a color before it is born, all earthly colors bleeding and mixing together. The sight reminds her of unborn light in her developing tray.

Cleo recalls the dozen prairie photographs she left drying in the underground darkroom and wonders which possible future will develop, contemplating what may grow on this land in years and centuries to come. Her artistic creed echoes: make the work you want to make.

Soaked by torrential rain and shaken by thunder that sounds apocalyptic after the long drought, the group stands witnessing and being witnessed by the light. Cleo feels something speak to her heart but, as a photographer who works in light rather than language, refuses to translate or betray the vision by putting it into words.