Nothing Comes Off It
There is a hill on the east side of the city with a flat top and a bench on it. In the evening the fog comes over the hills on the west side and fills the low part of the city, and you can sit on the bench and watch it come.
On the highest hill on the other side there is a mast. It is very tall and it stands on three legs, and it has red lights on it. When the fog comes in, the legs go into it and then the middle does, and then only the top is left out, with the lights on it, standing up out of a white floor.
At home a thing that tall would be combing. It would stand at the edge of the fog and the fog would go through it, and it would be wet all the way down and green at the bottom, and people would climb it at the right tides.
This one holds its top out of the fog as if it wanted to keep dry. I watched it for an hour and twenty-five minutes. Nothing came off it. I could not see the bottom, so I do not know what grows there.
I do not know what it is for. I did not ask anyone. A man on the next bench was eating something out of a paper bag and I could have asked him.
I hope it is for something. It seems to be working very hard at it.