The Sculptor's Tide

The salt-licked stone surrenders to the rhythmic bruise of the tide, each wave a sculptor with infinite patience carving the cliff into memory.

Glass-green water pulls at the shale, gathering the weight of centuries in a single, retreating sigh, leaving behind the ghosts of shells.

Here, the wind tastes of rust and iron, a persistent humming through the tall grass that bows toward the inevitable edge where the earth dissolves into light.