Chart of the Unheld Coast

At dawn the harbor exhales its iron breath, and fog unspools like silk from a torn sleeve. Surveyors lift their poles into whiteness, measuring what vanishes as they name it.

Buoys ring somewhere ahead, struck by invisible hands; gulls write pale commas over the water. On the pier, a child folds yesterday's map into a paper boat and lets it forget.

The city behind us clicks and brightens, windows opening like matchheads in rain. We draw shorelines in pencil, then watch the tide lean in and blur each certainty.

By noon the sun burns a brief corridor west, a road of light no instrument can keep. We close the case, salt on our cuffs, and carry home a chart of the unheld coast.