Hollow Beaches of Autumn

October is a place the dunes remember.
They shift in the wind,
whispering in old Wabanaki tongues
as you cross their pale backs.

The sky hangs low,
a pewter lid pressed against the horizon.
Somewhere beyond the pines,
a bonfire crackles—
not warm, not inviting,
but watchful.

You follow the path
that wasn’t here last month,
a narrow ribbon of sand
threading between beach rose thickets
and tide pools that reflect
more sky than they should.

A seal lifts its head from the surf,
black-eyed, knowing too much.
It disappears without a splash,
as if October swallowed it whole.

The wind carries names.
Not yours yet—
but it will.

October is a place
that learns you slowly,
like a tide memorizing a shoreline.
By the time you reach the water’s edge,
you realize the dunes
aren’t whispering anymore.

They’re listening.