It’s the wave, its translucence just before it falls over in a frothy jumble. I can almost see through it. What I can see is dreamy and warped, the sun, the land wiggled and watery. It’s the wave, like heat coming off a street in late August. As a child, I’d lie on the grass and look through the heat and see how it changed the world on the other side of the road. It’s the wave.