The sand is still warm under your hands. Not hot. Just holding the sun the way iron holds heat after the flame is gone.

A whelk shell rests near your knee, spiral worn smooth, one edge chipped where something stronger opened it. Water moves in shallow lines across the flats, ankle-deep, carrying light in slow currents.

A willet works close to your shadow. You hear the faint click of its bill on shell. It misses, steps, tries again. This time it swallows.

The wind is light, drying salt on your forearms, leaving it along the hairline. Behind you, the dunes smell of oats and dry grass. The seed heads rattle softly when the breeze passes.

Three pelicans move offshore, wingbeats slow and heavy. You can hear them push air aside. A mullet jumps. Then another. No explanation offered.

Your shirt has dried stiff with salt. It bends differently now. The lighthouse stands north along the curve of beach, its old concrete seam still visible where it once stood closer to the water.

The sun lowers toward the sound. The color is not orange but copper, softened by distance.

A ghost crab emerges near your foot. It pauses, eyes lifted, then slips sideways into sand that closes quietly behind it.

The surf is low tonight. Not crashing. Just a steady hush.

You stay until the first star. Then you rise, sand in your shoes, salt on your lips, carrying nothing but the shape of the hour.

The tide will come back.

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