Salt Archive

At low tide the town reveals its ribs— rusted bicycles, a watch without a face, clamshells cupped like small theaters where the waves rehearse their blue.

A woman in a yellow raincoat writes names on glass, then wipes them away, each erased syllable becoming fog on the pier’s railing.

The sea keeps an inventory of evenings: boats returning with their nets of starlight, the gulls stitching wind to roofline, and the old lighthouse blinking once for home.

I walk the salt‑wet road and feel my pockets fill with quiet. Night folds the harbor into its coat, buttons made of distant ships.