The tide has come, and you stand here. A silent breath against the rocks.
Listen close now. To the slow drift of snow— it’s weight, soft and deep. It gathers where little shadows gather in the water.
You are resting on edge, where the sand meets the stone wall. And you feel it seep down, a gentle, quiet weight.
The harbor breathes out a sigh of ice crystals dancing in every wave pocket. A hush falls over everything, and nothing has to move anymore.
Look how the snowflakes fall, each one a miniature storm, dusting up drifts of salt and tidepool air. You watch them scatter— they don't rush, they just drop.
They are patient things, holding fast against gravity’s pull. A quiet geography of white powder.
Imagine standing there now, feeling the coolness wash over you, carrying away the sharp edges of day's noise. It doesn't sound like much at all—just this gentle spread out, this slow accumulation of light and silence.
The harbor is breathing in peace with this deepening quietude. Your shoulders feel lighter, too. Like there are no sounds left to listen for, only the soft settling back into itself.
You watch how the snowflakes cluster, some perfect, others falling like scattered thoughts, each little package of pure white beauty— it gathers and it dissipates.