Nocturne for the Glass Tide

At two a.m. the aquarium empties into hush, only pumps speaking in a language of lungs. Moonlight slides down the tunnel of glass and the sharks pass like unfinished thoughts.

My mop leaves temporary weather on the floor, small estuaries that mirror the jellyfish room. Each bell rings with a pulse of pale fire, as if snow learned to breathe underwater.

In the seahorse tank, a father anchors his tail to a ribbon of kelp and does not drift. I stand there longer than the bucket allows, remembering how care can look like stillness.

By dawn, the gift shop lights wake one by one, postcards bright as scaled wings on a rack. Outside, buses inhale at the curb; inside, the tide keeps polishing the dark.