The Salt's Long Memory

The tide arrives as a silver blade, slicing the soft underbelly of the cliff. Grain by grain, the sandstone surrenders, a slow dissolution into the froth.

White birds hang like paper cutouts against a sky bruised by the coming squall. They cry out in a language of wind, mourning the land that was here at dawn.

Salt crusts the hollows of ancient stone, leaving behind the ghosts of oceans past. The water remembers every curve it carved, a sculptor whose work is never finished.