The river doesn't tell dates, only seasons echoing past ripples, fading. Paths entwined with saltgrass, bearing witness to twilight whispers.

"This way speaks heron," murmurs the current softly, bending reeds following motions, dreams unspooling. Echoes of land speak their handwritten songs, where tidal dialogue never forgets what it has heard.

Continue downstream with me, mindful edges ahead.

Water weaving stories in whispers, cross-legged over flickering light; tangible murmurs dance upon muted days, breeze revelling within sunray sways.