Tide Atlas

The harbor lifts its shoulders of mist, ropes slick with night, gulls threading the cranes. I open a chart that smells of salt and ink, and the water begins to speak in lines.

A map is a lantern laid on its side, its wick a coastline, its flame a slow current. Soundings fall through me like pebbles, each depth a name I forgot to keep.

Somewhere a cable hums under the bay, carrying a city's breath, a distant prayer. The tide copies every syllable, then erases its own handwriting.

At low water, the mud shows its script, twisted eelgrass, rust, a silver button. I fold the chart into my coat, and walk inland with the sea still moving.