At the Tidal Plant, Before Morning

At three a.m. the estuary turns in its sleep, and turbines begin their low cathedral hum. Orange helmets drift along the catwalks like small moons crossing a black tide.

Salt climbs the railings, a white handwriting. Gulls, half-awake, stitch cries through fog. Inside the control room, screens bloom green with currents no eye can hold.

We drink coffee that tastes of pennies and storm. Bolts sweat; gauges lift their thin eyebrows. Each surge arrives carrying faraway weather, news from cliffs, rain, and broken piers.

By dawn the river loosens its fist. Light spills over tanks, over gloves, over grease. The city wakes on borrowed water and wattage, never hearing the dark engine sing its name.