The Salted Hour

The grey crest of morning breaks, scrimshaw etched on the rising swell, pulling the dark from the dunes. A lone gull measures the distance between silence and the shore.

Footprints vanish under the wash, brief hollows filled with brine, erasing the weight of whoever walked the wet sand in the night. Only the shells remain, scattered coins.

We gather the sea-glass like promises, frosted green and cobalt blue, smoothed by the churning deep. They hold the light of older suns, cold in the palm, heavy with salt.