The Mist Closes Behind Her

On her last afternoon, Polly flew high above the coast again. Below her lay the tea fields, the crater with its two lakes, and the quiet forest where the priolo still lives. From up there, the island looked like what it is: a chain of old volcanoes, still slowly cooling into green.

Fishing boats were heading back to the harbor, leaving thin white lines on the darkening sea. Lights came on one by one along the coast road. The smell of smoke drifted up from the shore.

Fog rolled in from the ocean, just as it had all week. It covered the crater, then the tea fields, then the harbor, hiding the island slowly from view. Polly had seen it do this before.

She flew out over open water as the last light faded. Behind her, the island kept cooking its dinner underground, growing its tea leaf by leaf, and keeping a small grey bird safe in its forest.