Light Through Water

Each wave holds a thousand prisms— fractured gold dancing across the coffee-dark stones below.

The sun doesn't linger here. It breaks into smaller suns, each one born and drowning in the same breath, a brief mercy of refraction.

I watch the pattern scatter, reassemble, scatter again, as if the water were teaching itself the grammar of disappearance.

Nothing stays bright. Even light forgets its shape when it touches what moves.