docks

On a fall morning like this, the eastern seaboard is misty and bright. Many a tall tale has passed through this port, for sailors always find something to blame for their lack of haul. But there is something to be said for the sense of unknown found at the edge of a pier. Hours could pass here with the only sound being the familiar creaking of mired wood and sloshing of waves against the old stones that kept guard on the shore.

I tend to get lost in thought, lost in memories. I can't help myself. I've always found it easier to stay lost, especially somewhere I've never been. Eventually the sun will go down, lights will dim, and dreams will overtake.

The leaves have already started falling. What once was August and the promise of cooler days will soon give way to even colder, longer nights. It won't be long now.

Somewhere, far beyond the horizon, a lighthouse stands resolute.