The Force That Sets the Sun

The sun drops like a coin at the tip of Baja, the Pacific turning copper and then flame. The sand cools. The breeze freshens. We kneel in a line, hands open, and the beach comes alive with small, urgent motion.

Sea turtle hatchlings spill forward. Ink-dark, thumb-sized, relentless. They claw at sand that dwarfs them. Foam hisses. A wave reaches, retreats, reaches again. And one by one, the sea takes them.

There is no app. No map. No voice from a tower telling them north or south. They carry their directions in bone and blood, a compass etched before light ever touched their eyes.