Salt Engine at Dawn

Before sunrise, the desalination plant hums like a cello tuned to the color of steel; pipes sweat moonlight onto the concrete, and the sea waits, bitter as a held breath.

Inside the membrane halls, salt is lifted away in glittering heaps of unspent storms. Fresh water gathers in clear, patient veins, learning the shape of every thirsty town.

A gull lands on the rail and studies the vapor, white script rising from warm basins. The workers speak softly over gauges and valves, as if blessing each liter into morning.

When daylight opens, the horizon loosens. Trucks leave with cisterns full of small weather, and behind them the ocean keeps arriving, endless, ancient, willing to be translated.