Tideclock Orchard

At low water the estuary shows its bones, planks of mud ribbed like the inside of a bell, and the turbines lean down to listen, slow metal ears to the hush of silt.

A heron stands in the shadow of a pylon, so still the wind forgets its name. I count the screws, the barnacles, the rust, as if they were fruit ripening out of season.

The tide returns with a pocketful of coins, each wave a small argument for motion. Gears begin to sing in their patient key, a hymn made of pressure and salt.

At dusk the lights along the causeway flicker on, fireflies soldered to a wire of road. The river lifts the machines like old stories, and I carry their rhythm home in my mouth.