Copperwing II garden in that stretch of wet

in that stretch of wet sand where everything left behind gathers for a moment before the sea decides what to take back

cool and silent

stepping back just enough to see the full line of it

the queens of old would gather — not to quarrel over crowns or kingdoms

the hush before dusk when everything alive seems to listen

Copperwing II garden in that stretch of wetCopperwing waits in the ginkgo tree, where morning light drifts like melted gold and evening spills in amber rivers. It is never caught in the glare of day, only glimpsed when the sky softens, when shadows stretch long and the world holds its breath. It flits along branches that hum with old stories, wings stirring the air with a sound like faint bells, like something impossible brushing past. Those who notice it feel a shift in the light, a weight in