The Delta

Flat land, flat water, and a sky that takes up nearly everything. Reed channels wind through the delta in narrow silver lanes, walled on both sides by reeds taller than any rooftop in the port. Between them lie pale sandbanks, smooth and rippled, shifting shape with every tide. A raised dyke runs along the inland edge, topped by a grassy path as straight as a ruler. Out among the reeds an old navigation beacon leans at a drunken angle, its paint banded in faded red and white, the one bright mark for miles. Short wooden pegs dot the nearest sandbank in tidy rows, and to the east the reeds grow denser and the water turns brown, and weathered boardwalk planks begin to lead away toward the fen. Low evening sun burns the reed heads gold. On the far horizon, small and grey, stand the cranes of Monding.