Weaver

Crop biologicals look alike: thirteen homepages, thirteen greens or soil browns, and yield promises measured in percentages. Growers have heard it. When Practical Farmers of Iowa ran a replicated strip trial of a leading mycorrhizal inoculant, both strips came in at 248 bushels.

Growers trust one thing: a check strip on their own ground.

How do you sell something that works underground, where nobody can watch, to people who believe only their own yield map?

The fungus does one real thing. Its threads grow from the roots out through the soil, 6 to 18 inches past where the roots stop, and bring back water and phosphorus. We named it for that: a weaver passes the thread across the warp, and the fungus weaves its threads across between the roots.

The idea: the thread across.

Every surface has one line across it. Every order comes with the check: flags, a strip plan and a read of the grower's own yield map.

One thread of constant width runs level, dips into a w and loops over itself. The falling pass lies over the rising one, as weft lies over warp. It's built from five circles and two lines at 45°, with a core cut for 16 px and an app icon where it runs edge to edge.

Flag pink comes from the wire survey flag every grower has pushed into a field, set on soil black and seed-bag white; no crop-input brand uses it. Big Shoulders Display, drawn for Chicago's street signs, carries what's read from the cab: rates, prices, names. Host Grotesk carries what's read at the kitchen table.

The rule the system obeys: every surface has one line across it, carrying the one fact that matters there. On the jug it's the rate; on the plot sign, which side is treated; on the website's hero the thread draws across the horizon and the band is laid under it.

The voice never quotes a yield claim. Its hardest line is the one that says Weaver didn't pay: when a strip reads the same both ways, the app says so, and says where to try it instead.

Working photography under an even sky: rows seen along their length, the planter at work, the flag going in, harvest at dusk. Everyone is dressed for work and busy. The half underground is shown once.

A white jug with the rate on the band and a flag-pink cap, so it's found on a crowded toolbar. A plot sign at the end of the treated strip, a bulletin on a county highway, a cap for the cab.

Every order comes with flags, a strip plan for each field and a read of the yield map. The check runs on the tablet most growers already mount in the cab, and it tells the truth either way.

The home page argues in three pinned states: roots go down, Weaver goes across, it shows up on your map. The check travels between May and October, and the thread is traced from its construction at the close. The hero replays the opening film's own timing.

The dealer sheet puts the mechanism at true scale; the order email puts the next step first. On social, the flag goes in, the read tells the truth, and the mechanism fits in six words.