Dusk on the Salt Marsh

The horizon bleeds a pale indigo, stretching over the flat expanse of water, where the marsh grass bows to the incoming tide. Shadows pool in the hollows of the dunes.

A single heron stands motionless in the shallows, a silhouetted stroke of ink against the silver glass, waiting for the sudden silver flash beneath. The air smells of ancient salt and cooling earth.

Soon the lighthouse will blink awake, cutting the velvet dark with its steady rhythm, while the town folds inward, shutters drawn, leaving the edge of the world to the wind.