Salt Dialect

The tide speaks in a dialect I almost remember— consonants of gravel dragged across the shingle, vowels opening wide as the bay at dawn.

My grandmother kept jars of sea glass on the sill, syllables worn smooth by repetition, each one a word the water gave back changed.

I press my ear to the wet sand and hear the hum beneath, that older conversation between basalt and brine, patient as a language no one needs to teach.

Sometimes a wave will hold its breath before it breaks, the way a speaker pauses mid-sentence, searching for the phrase that carries all the weight.

I have been that pause. I have been the salt still drying on the wood long after the boat has been pulled home.