Wave

Far from the shore, in the deep cathedral of the ocean, a tremor of wind skims the surface. No more than a whisper, it pushes a fold of water forward—a sleeping giant stirring in its bed. For miles, it gathers patience, drawing energy from the moon’s silver string and the earth’s slow turn.

At first, it is a question. A swelling of the belly, a curve too slight for the eye to trust. Then, as the seabed rises to meet it, the question sharpens. The trough deepens. The crest curls into a glassy lip, holding the light like a held breath.

Watch closely. The next one is already on its way. Far from the shore, in the deep cathedral

It begins not with a crash, but with a breath.

Then the water hesitates. It pulls back, hissing through the gravel, dragging shells and secrets into its dark hold. The beach is clean. The slate is wiped. At first, it is a question

Here is the wave in its moment of perfect arrogance: suspended between sky and stone, translucent and green, a moving mountain that has forgotten it must break.

Because a wave is not a thing. It is a gesture. A message passed from air to water to land and back again. It dies not to end, but to travel. Each retreat is a promise. Each silence is a gathering. The trough deepens

And out there, past the horizon, the wind is already breathing again.