The wind shifts, and the embers flare.
A sudden rush of heat brushes my face, carrying sharp pine and clean resin. I blink against the smoke and lean back instinctively, heart flip-flopping at the burst of sparks.
They rise fast—gold against black sky.
For a second, I forget to breathe.
The tide answers with a hollow knock against the dock posts, steady and unbothered. Salt rides the air and settles on my lips. I taste it— mineral, alive—and something in my chest loosens.
The fire collapses inward with a soft crack.
Warm spice rolls through the smoke now—cinnamon and clove glowing low beneath the sharper wood. It isn’t sweet. It’s steady. Grounded. The kind of warmth that lingers in a wool sweater long after the night ends.
I close my eyes and inhale deeper.
Earth follows—darker, slower. Patchouli and vetiver hum close to the sand. Cedar anchors it all, solid and unmoving beneath the shifting wind.
The embers pulse again.
Red. Gold. Red.
The breeze swirls them around, sparks lift and disappear into the sky. I watch them climb toward the North Star, bright and beaming.
I take a deep breath and loosen my shoulders.
The sand presses cool against my palms as I steady myself. Smoke tangles in my hair. Heat grazes my knees in slow pulses. Ah the quiet rhythm of waves ebbing and flowing along the dark shoreline.
I’ve felt this before—back when evenings weren’t measured, and the only thing moving was the tide.
Another spark rises.
This time, I follow it with my eyes.
Not searching.
Not asking.
Just remembering what it feels like to be still.
And maybe that’s enough.
A quiet fire by the shore.
Salt in the air, embers glowing low.
The kind of night you wish would linger a little longer.
Coastal Embers captures the warmth of driftwood fires on a cool coastal evening—smoky embers, salt air, and the quiet comfort of gathering by the flame beneath the steady glow of the North Star.
