It scarcely looks real: the distance turns the plantations into the landscape of a model train set. The water is brown, black, channeling down the white rows of greenhouses. A house follows along, joining a procession of boats, trees, splintered wood. A gas main sparks and orange flowers bloom and burn in the mud.
You know there must be people down there. There was little warning, and not everyone could have evacuated. But the scale hides them, shields them, makes it possible to just marvel at destruction.
But then the devouring tide reaches a road, and a car turns around.
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Wearing Book
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