When the full moon whispers secrets to the sea, the fish listen. They become messengers, their fins carrying tales southward, where warmth hugs the waters, and the coral reefs sleep in eternal twilight.
People, too, have their tides. Hidden under the skin, currents pull us, driftwood tied to ripples unseen. Some head south for the sun, others the solace of saltwater shores. Each step a soft echo of the ocean's call, a song lined with seashells and sand.
Waves script our lives, line by line, as readable as the stars on a cloudless night. We follow their scripts, guided by the moon's gentle hand, chasing stories of fins and forgotten realms.
Migration tales are woven in the threads of tide and time. A fisherman once told me that his father spoke of a current that danced, a flow of life that had no beginning or end. Just like the wind and the waves, it chose no home but found solace in movement.