The Weight of Fog

The morning descends not in light, but in a quiet suspension of air, heavy with the breath of the bay, swallowing the sharp edges of the pier.

A solitary gull traces an arc, invisible but for the damp rush of wings, a ghost writing upon a ghost, leaving no wake in the still gray.

We learn to navigate the unseen, trusting the muffled cadence of the waves, the sudden scent of brine and pine, the steady pulse of a shore we cannot find.