The Salt Works at Dawn

Before sunrise the intake gates yawn open, the sea arrives with its pockets of moonlight, metal catwalks ring like struck glass, gulls stitch white signatures through steam.

Inside, membranes breathe in long blue rows, brine drums against them, stubborn as memory; we listen to pumps keep a whale-heart rhythm, and watch darkness thin in the viewing panes.

First light spills copper on the settling tanks, every droplet learning a new name: drinkable. My gloves smell of tide and warm circuitry, my shadow wavers on water made from weather.

By shift's end the city lifts its kettles, fountains climb, tea leaves uncurl in kitchens. Somewhere a child turns a tap without thinking, and morning runs clear from the mouth of the sea.