Not all bushes are meant to be hedges. This one has been cut back until it can’t go forward. Its skeleton sticks through its skin. Brown seeks to predominate. And yet, even in this condition there’s something fascinating about it. It has become a living and a dying texture, not a green well mannered clump, but a patch of life in all its stages. We see the past without quite seeing the future. Just like us. Just like everything around us. No matter what we do, we are not perfect hedges. We advance and retreat, grow and die. And that is the life we live. The intermediate texture of past and future, life and death and, of course, today.