Maine

The roadmap lost its argument miles back, yielding to salt and stone. Now the ceramic warms weathered hands, steam rising against a sky of pearl and slate.

Here in York, Sister Water keeps her steady litany, rolling in over dark, patient rock, each crest breaking into cold white foam, each retreat drawing back the shore like a slow breath.

A soft Atlantic breeze stirs the gray morning, carrying the scent of brine and kelp, saturating the quiet corners of the chest until the soul is washed clean in the salt air.

No compass pointed toward this ledge; no planned itinerary marked the hour. Yet the gray horizon opens wide, turning a mistaken turn into an altar, a straying detour into holy ground.

Blessed error, gentle gift, to lose the planned direction entirely, and find creation waiting with open hands.