The lonely walker stands at the threshold where sea meets land, solitary against the dimming light. Sand shifts beneath his weathered boots, each grain a memento of time passing without ceremony. The horizon bleeds amber and crimson, colours seeping into the grey canvas of approaching night.
Above, the birds wheel and dive—black silhouettes cutting mathematical patterns against the fading sky. Their wings beat in syncopation with his heart's irregular rhythm. They are not mere creatures but manifestations of his untethered thoughts, each one carrying a fragment of memory he cannot quite grasp.
The salt air fills his lungs with its ancient sting. He breathes deeply, feeling the cold penetrate the worn fabric of his jacket, settling into the hollow spaces between his ribs where warmth once resided.
With each exhalation, another thought takes flight, joining the murmuration overhead—fears and hopes indistinguishable in their aerial dance. He watches them disperse toward distant shores, envying their freedom yet grateful for their momentary departure.
As twilight deepens into the first darkness, he remains—a vertical interruption in the horizontal world, bearing witness to the migration of all things, including himself, away from what was and toward what remains unknown.

He stands where sea meets land, a solitary figure
Against the fading light. Each footprint fills
With salt water, erasing his passage.
The wind tugs at his collar, insistent.
Above, black birds wheel in disorganised murmurations,
Their shadows skimming the wet sand like vagrant thoughts
He cannot quite capture. Each bird, indistinguishable
From another, yet part of something greater.
The dying sun bleeds amber across the horizon.
He watches his shadow stretch, distorted and thin,
As though the day's end might finally reveal
The true shape of his loneliness.
The birds scatter, reunite, disperse again—
A visual echo of his fragmented memories.
In their migration, he recognizes his own restlessness,
His inability to remain or fully depart.
The tide advances. He does not retreat.
Something in the birds' pattern speaks to him
Of impermanence, of necessary departures,
Of finding direction in collective uncertainty.