The water is rising in Venice. Soon the acqua alta will drench the
ground floors of the city's shops and houses and the tourists will be
forced to teeter along wooden walkways strewn across Piazza San Marco,
a labyrinth within a labyrinth. The mists roll in from the Adriatic,
drenching everything in a heaviness.

A long time ago the acqua alta
flooded the 4th floor of a 15th century palazzo. Stepping-stones were
placed across the main hallway so people could walk across from one
room to another. Birds came to drink and bathe in the shimmering pools,
and trees grew, downwards from the ceilings, reaching towards the
water. Now the water has gone the stones are left as if suspended. The
trees are dead, petrified like the trees supporting the city below,
poking into the lagoon. No brilliantly coloured birds rest and flutter,
the pools have dried up, and the nesting box built for them lies empty.
The level of the water is marked in rust on the metal objects left
behind, like the carvings on the walls in Venice, a testament to
disaster, change, a sinking city.