The Rusting Sun

The copper weather vane turns, stiff on its axis, grinding against the salt-heavy wind that blows from the estuary.

Below, the marsh grass bends, a sea of dry ochre shifting in restless, rhythmic waves under a low, bruised sky.

We count the hours by the shadows that lengthen across the floorboards, watching the slow oxidation of everything we thought permanent.

Even the sun seems to tarnish as it slips below the horizon, leaving a streak of dull iron against the gathering dark.