before the storm

a man, standing against the whispers of an oncoming storm, balances on the edge of the sea. the fishing rod in his hand is steady, but the air feels heavy, charged. the waves glimmer under a dull sky, their rhythm a warning, their pull a promise. in portixol, before the winds came, there was this fleeting quiet. the kind that settles deep in the bones, like a story waiting to be told.

Done