Archivist of the Tide

At low tide the library appears— wooden ribs of a pier, shelves of silt, pages written in eelgrass and salt.

I walk the aisle of barnacle and rope, hearing a clock made of stones counting backward into the bay.

Each wave returns a different ledger: a coin with a storm’s face, a cup etched by years of rain.

By dusk the stacks vanish again, and the water seals its quiet like ink drying in the dark.