Once, long ago, in India, in a village, our cinderblock rooms shaded by mango trees, we saw a waterfall in reverse. Far in the distance, we could barely make it out, white blur on green hillside above cow pasture and farmsprawl, a picturesque and dreamy thing, but something strange. Ever so slightly but unmistakably, you had to look again, the white moved from down to up, cow dung floor to clouds, not by magic but by mundane climactic conditions, typical to the season, whereby pre-monsoon winds, having nowhere else to go, whipped straight upslope upon meeting mountains en route from the sea. Privy to these particularities only afterwards, we took it for a miracle, burning the image into the backs of our eyes to save for later, one never knows -