vestan

Eastward, the sky is striped in narrow horizontal bands like I once saw in Denmark, but orange. And there is no bælt here. I miss the gray line of sea. There was one here once, the only trace today the wide invisible expanse of limestone underneath everything. Caves wind through it, I understand, where rainwater has bored its way downward and back in time. Still, I am having trouble working up any nostalgia.