The sea comes back to the rock the way a ghost comes back to the house: nightly, pale-armed, patient, sighing into every seam of the stone and sliding away silver. The grey goes to pewter, the pewter to green, and the white of the foam is white only for a moment. I am in it somewhere: the foam that finds each hollow and forgets itself. The stone gives itself up grain by grain, centuries, leaning into the embrace that unmakes it, the way mountains across deep time rise and kneel like spirits passing through a wall.

Pebble Beach, August 2026