The Cables That Dream in Salt

At the harbor, the morning shivers its net, a silver mesh of gull-cry and diesel breath. Below, the city hums through braided nerves, glass threads whispering to far coasts.

Down in the pressure-dark, the cables sleep, coiled like eels in a cathedral of silt. Each pulse a bead of light, a brief lantern for the blind fish of distance.

On the surface, a child skips stones— flat moons that tap and vanish. She does not know the world keeps her name in the soft relay of salt and voltage.

Some nights, storms comb the sea with iron fingers, and the lines tremble, remembering lightning. Messages arrive with a taste of rain, as if the ocean learned to speak.