Tidepool Grammar

At low tide the world writes itself in parentheses, salt commas beading on kelp and basalt. Crabs read with their sideways eyes, turning each sentence over with a shell-soft click.

A child kneels to listen to the tidepool's quiet vowels, listening for the moment the water chooses to breathe. Anemones hold their syllables close, small mouths of color cupping the day.

Farther out, the sea rehearses a deeper music, blue lungs lifting, lowering, practicing time. Gulls stitch a line between the clouds and foam, and the horizon keeps its slow, unblinking watch.

When the tide returns, it erases and revises, leaving only the scent of brine and the cool gloss of stone. In the dark, the pools remember the stars, and the shore repeats the lesson in a language of light.