Tide-Lanterns

The marsh has been re-taught its own name, boardwalks sewn like quiet seams. Lanterns squat on the posts, glass-bellied, waiting for the sea to rise and tune them.

Daylight pours into their ribs, stored as a slow glow beneath the reedbrush. When the tide returns, the water lifts them and the light loosens, like breath released.

Cattails comb the wind; a blue heron stands in a puddle of brass reflection. Old shopping carts, turned trellises, hold vines that write their curly green signatures.

We walk between salt and soil, pockets full of small stones warmed by the last sun. Behind us the city hums in a low register, a distant engine, while the marsh sings back.