Among echoes, she dropped a feather, a single syllable lost to the sea's breath.

Do whispers count if the tide is swelled above gentle thoughts, rising homeward, in reverse?

Breath upon sand is a language familiar but distant, drifting where it's touched, forgotten, once again.

When kelp curls like intentions at the shore-little suspicions of stars beneath liquid cloth.

Has the moon lain secrets with far tides turning your ear southward?

Should any ouisa remain, the distant ykow...humming muddled symphonies reminiscent of songs unsung.