Saltwork Lullaby

At the edge of town, the desalination plant hums like a conch pressed to a giant ear, its pipes sweating a faint salt, a breath of tides that have never seen these streets.

Inside, membranes dream in thin, blue layers; their pores remember storms, the shape of rain. Brine is a mirror the workers do not touch, it keeps a small moon of itself in every tank.

A gull threads the gantries, white note in a metal staff, and heat shimmers off rails like a page turned too fast. The sun is a supervisor with a bright clipboard, checking the quotas of light.

At night, the city drinks its borrowed water, and the plant listens for thunder in the distance, counting the hours like shells on a shoreline it was built to replace.