To you, Morning at the winter sea is still dark. The sound of waves pushing back the sand seeps into the cold places on the backs of my hands. Out on the breakwater, a single gull has folded its wings. Yesterday I stood there even after the sun went down, not noticing how cold my hands were. Where you used to stay, now only the wind passes. The time to go back has long since passed, but the morning is slowly brightening over the sea. Someday, will you be looking at these waves too.
Once, in the dawn market alley, I saw greenhouse lights bleeding into the fog. On the shed roof beside it, a single pumpkin, dried since last autumn, still hung.