morning light at the coastal drive

the air here always smells like salt and old wood mixed with something sweeter, musk. i walk slowly through these familiar trees, leftovers piled high on cracked patches. a distant gurgle echoes underfoot, thick as fog clinging to the woods. somehow the silence feels heavy yet soft, holding secrets only the wind understands. i notice how sunlight fractures through between branches, painting shifting patterns on the dew-laden forest floor. it’s a place where time stretches thin, pulling me closer despite the distance. my boots tap against the earth, a rhythmic counterpoint to the quiet hum. sometimes the path splits briefly, leading nowhere or just back. these moments slip through fingers like sand, hard to grasp but constant. the scent lingers sharp after rain, promising either comfort or danger. i merely tread, absorbing the weight beneath my shoes. here, stillness persists, just different, longer. the silence speaks volumes louder than voices ever could.

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