With hunched, frail shoulders the crone leant against her sand-smooth staff. Her gnarled hand trembled holding a wax sealed bottle. Inside, a parchment displayed swirls of an unknown language.

It’s fall soundless from above the rocks.  There it danced with the tide like a lost jewel beneath the hidden sun’s demise.

“Please…” Her croak echoless upon the breezeless eve. “Father, let me come home for this land is not for me.”

A tail of rainbow scales splashed a wave – then disappeared.

The bottle stolen.

She waited and prayed for the storms to align for her antiquated legs’ last dawn.