Balkan decoys, elaborate and beautiful, affix, shielding a forgotten mist, a village; an archaeologist arches her architectural theory, squinting down at the photograph believed to be the only of its kind. The people, stoic and oversized, walk above rather than within… they must reside behind rather than inside, she figures. Water falls from the margin. But how—she scribbles into her fading field note book—how can it, with the homes so close. Perhaps they needn’t worry over being swept at all; nearly weightless, though real, floating, she determines, this paper town on a cliff.
Into focus: a frayed corner, peeling to another image beneath the first.
The archaeologist gently brushes off the original exposure, which, suddenly of its own accord, takes flight. Awestruck, she follows the winged photograph out the door, across a modest yard, beyond her wildest hallucinations, to the paper town, at water’s edge.
Snap, a camera echoes in the distance. A photograph ruffles its feathers.