The Estuary Engine

At the mouth of the river, a factory of salt opens its iron lips to the pull of the moon. Gulls circle like loose screws in the wind. The water climbs the concrete ribs, silver and cold.

Inside, turbines hum in a language of rivers, a deep-throated choir turning pressure into light. We stand on catwalks, hands smelling of brine, watching the sea clock itself through the valves.

At night the estuary keeps a ledger of tides, inked in foam, erased, inked again. Lights from the plant bloom over the reeds; fish flicker like thoughts under a skin of stars.

By dawn the moon has shifted its weight on the world, and the river exhales, leaving oysters exposed. The machinery rests, damp with its own breath. We walk home with pockets full of tide-maps.