The Time It Is Owed
There is a gap in the hills where the sea comes into the bay, and a bridge over it. In the afternoon the fog comes in through the gap.
I went on three afternoons and sat at the same place above it. I sat down each day at twenty past three and wrote down when it came.
It comes all at once. You can see it outside, lying on the sea, and then the front of it is at the bridge, and the towers go into it from the bottom up. It does not spread. It arrives. Behind the front it is already full.
On the first afternoon it came at twelve minutes past four. On the second it came at thirteen minutes to five. On the third it came at five to five.
At home there is a long water that does this, and it comes at the time it is owed. You can stand on the shore and say now, and it is now. People set things by it.
Here it was late twice. I have been thinking about whether that is a fault in it or a courtesy. On the first day it did not know I was coming. On the second and third days perhaps it thought I would want longer to look.
I would have waited longer.