Library of Tides

The harbor opens like a book of slow pages, each wave a thumbprint of moon. At the pier, the ropes hum a low hymn, salt on the air like a shaken bell.

I walk among the stacks of water, shelves turning themselves in the wind. Every boat is a sentence, half erased.

Kelp writes in green cursive beneath the surface, lantern fish annotate the margins with sparks. Evening shelves the horizon, the sky slides shut with a soft blue cover.

I close my hands around a drop, a tiny archive of travels and storms. It says: remember by moving.