At the Edge of the Salt Observatory

Tonight the tide pools hold their own constellations, small galaxies breathing in broken stone. Anemones open like cautious hands when the moon lays a silver coin on water.

I kneel where brine and starlight trade names, hearing crabs write quick punctuation in sand. Kelp ribbons drift like unwound violin strings, and each wave tunes the dark a little lower.

Far offshore, buoys blink their patient vowels, red, then white, then gone. I think of cities sleeping behind their glass, how even concrete dreams in tides.

By dawn the pools will close their bright mouths, salt drying to maps on my wrists. Still, I carry that phosphor under my skin, a quiet lantern for ordinary hours.