Six cyclists wait at a level-crossing, three couples or something more random, leaning into definition or from it. This is a cinematic moment, asking for a full treatment, a story to embed itself in, or one of those shy epiphanies needing a grand event to snap-freeze it into poignancy. Your mind plays with a hint of a sound-track, a faint beat of helicopter-blades building to a hot breath of threat or the distant but pervasive roaring of cyclone or tsunami. In the trick of a light-shift, the cycles melt into horses, the riders sprout cabbage-tree hats, their fingers fuse into…