The Geometry of Awe

The brass gears slip a fraction of a second, worn teeth catching on the salt-heavy air as it kneels by the receding tide.

In its copper hand, a shard of emerald glass, smoothed by a century of uncaring waves, holds the fractured light of a dying sun.

It does not know the word for beautiful, but the mainspring tightens in its chest, a mechanical echo of a held breath.

The ocean breathes in, drawing back the foam, leaving the construct stranded on the shore, calculating the geometry of awe.