At the Desalination Plant Before Dawn

The ocean arrives in steel arteries, black and breathing. Valves open like slow brass flowers in the dark. Salt knocks against the filters, a fistful of tiny bells. We stand in orange helmets, listening for morning.

Inside the membranes, pressure writes its clear scripture. Brine curls away, bitter as old advice. Fresh water gathers in tanks the color of moonlight, a quiet herd waiting behind concrete hills.

Outside, gulls stitch pale vowels through the wind. Pipelines run inland under sleeping neighborhoods. In their kitchens, cups wait upside down on dish racks, small mouths dreaming of rain they never met.

When sunrise lifts, the gauges soften to green. Steam unwinds from the roof like loosened thread. We clock out smelling of salt and metal and citrus soap, and carry a little borrowed ocean in our hands.