The Lung of the Atlantic

The tide is a lung, heavy and rhythmic, drawing the silvered sediment back to the throat of a deep, unblinking Atlantic. Each wave is a thumbprint pressed into the silt.

Here, the dunes are migrating in their sleep, shifting their weight like restless giants under the cold scrutiny of the moon. The grass holds the sand in a fragile grip of roots.

Salt crusts the windows of the abandoned boathouse, a milky cataracts through which the world dissolves into a blur of grey and ochre. Rust is the only flower that blooms in this spray.

We are visitors here, tracing lines in the foam that the next breath of the sea will erase. Wait for the silence that follows the crash, where the hiss of the receding water sounds like a secret.