In second grade, for a science demonstration, the teacher took a needle out of a sewing case, stroked it with a magnet, stuck it through a disc of cork and laid it on the surface of a glass of water where it floated and spun— the bulge that held the weight of the needle, the water that pushed as molecules clung to each other at the same time that they searched for what pulled them north.
What pulled them north was the promise of cooler air, a homestead to call their own, a city where they could begin their lives. Everyone wants a kingdom to call their own. And so they packed their bags, loaded a truck, broke away from what the heated mercury of family defined.
Not always hot to the touch, but always mercurial: atmospheres like hot springs, otherwise glacial. No easy way to withstand what clings stronger than molecules, generates the most surface tension.
There are bridges suspended on cables so thin it seems almost impossible that they can bear any weight at all. Even the fog tiptoes through them.
In response to Via Negativa: Hydrologic.