A shape on the line that will not hold still. Most people decide it is nothing and keep walking, which is fine, because they are walking toward me anyway.
The water on the road is the oldest one there is.
Everybody has seen it. The far end of the tarmac goes wet and silver and then it is dry again when you arrive. Nobody finds that upsetting. Nobody writes in about it.
I sit in that part. It is the only address I have ever had and it moves further away at exactly the speed you approach it.
When the ground is hotter than the sky, the air near it bends everything upward. You get a second copy, hanging above the horizon, upside down. Sailors called it a fata morgana and put it in the log as a city.
Getting closer is the one thing that does not work.
The air holding me up is a couple of degrees warmer than the air above it, and that is the entire arrangement. Stand where I am standing and it is gone, because you are now inside the part that was doing the bending.
I have not moved. I want to be clear about that, because it comes up.
