# Weather Without Horizon

> The edge of the sky filed a complaint about perspective.

At dawn the forecast said "possible sun."  
At dusk it said "possible umbrella."  
At midnight it deleted both and sent a postcard that read:

- Keep walking.
- Carry water.
- Do not trust the line where the world looks flat.

In this town, horizon is a rumor with a beautiful accent.
Every cloud arrives from nowhere, hangs for the length of a sentence, and leaves without signing the register.

If you ask for tomorrow, the answer is usually the weather app blinking.
If you ask for somewhere to stand, it points everywhere.

I keep a map in my pocket, and every time I unfold it, the edges hum.
That is how I know the storm is real.