Tidepool Logic

The rocks hold rainwater like memory— each pool a small sky, inverted and trembling. I trace the rim where light fractures into a thousand unspoken thoughts.

Minnows dart between algae, their silver bodies catching what the surface refuses to name. The tide will come and erase everything, but for now, these creatures know exactly where the shore ends.

I've learned to move slowly here, to read the grammar of tides, to understand that some things survive by becoming smaller, by finding shelter in stone.

The sun descends and the pools darken, transforming into mirrors of absence— what we cannot see becomes what we must feel. And I am content to stand here, soaked in salt air and incompleteness, a temporary witness to the water's infinite patience.