In this photo the diagonal of the playing field cuts away from the diagonal of the light poles, leaving an uninterpretable gap at ground level between the field and a solitary tree, caged by inclined lampposts--so the eye drags along the ground, catching on the white foreshortened numbers, while above the mass of the image swirls up its complex of clouds, tissues of vapor pulled into and against each other, the foreground dropping down into a kind of middling swerve like a fat finger veering toward Wisconsin. We accept, routinely, seeing as adequate to knowing, seeing nothing that we know.