A cruciform scarecrow is draped in a patchwork of national flags, its bright tessellation of identities rendered threadbare as it hangs over a scarred, industrial wasteland. The sky—washed in bruised violets and exhausted pinks—holds a migrating flock that reads like a fragile counterpoint to the grounded ruins, suggesting escape, witness, or the last remaining instinct toward continuity. Taut cables and skeletal towers slice the space with anxious diagonals, turning the composition into a quiet indictment of progress that has outpaced care. In the lower corner, the skull’s mute presence seals the work’s meditation on collective consequence: the body politic reduced to costume, and the earth left to tally the cost.