Salt and Silver

The fog arrives with a traveler’s patience, erasing the horizon line where the sky used to sleep against the slate-colored sea. It tastes of cold iron and crushed kelp.

Everything becomes an island now: the rusted pier, the single, unblinking buoy, and the gulls that cry like ghosts of things we forgot to say.

Underneath the thick, white wool of it, the world is a secret kept in a damp palm. We walk by the sound of the water, trusting the rhythm when the path is gone.

Then the light breaks, a silver needle stitching the coast back to the morning. The mist retreats, leaving only a salt-crust on the windows and the skin.