Saltwork Hymn

At the edge of town, the desalination plant breathes like a white animal, slow and warm, turning brine to a cup you can lift. Gulls write their rough signatures across the vents.

Workers in blue helmets lean into the wind, their radios clicking like small shells. Steam curls from the pipes—soft cloth laid over the shoulders of machinery.

Beyond the fence, a migrant field of reeds holds a low choir of insects and tide. Evening slides its copper across the inlet, and the lights come on in deliberate sequence.

I walk home with salt on my wrists, with a pocket of damp air I can't explain; the sea has been made portable, and my tongue remembers where it came from.