Desalination Dawn

Before sunrise, the plant hums like a hive of glass, brine climbing pipes with a moonlit tongue. Gulls wheel above the settling tanks, white commas correcting the sentence of night.

Membranes thin as eyelids hold back the bitter weight; pressure blossoms, invisible, in the steel. Salt falls away in glittering grammar, and freshwater gathers, clear as first forgiveness.

Workers in orange vests move through vapor and alarms, their boots ringing small bells on grates. They read the gauges the way farmers read weather, palms warm against railings jeweled with mist.

By dawn the city opens its taps without a thought. Kettles begin, children rinse sleep from their faces. Somewhere offshore, waves keep writing the old language, and here, all morning, we translate it into thirst's relief.