Tidepool Observatory

At low tide the rocks open their secret drawers, and every pocket of water keeps a private sky. Sea lettuce drapes the stone like damp silk, while minnows write silver commas through the dark.

I kneel and the evening leans over my shoulder; anemones unclench, small mouths of flame. A crab lifts one careful hand from the moon's reflection, as if testing whether light can be held.

Salt settles on my lips like an old language. Somewhere behind me the town clicks its windows shut, but here the world is all pulse and phosphor, a cathedral built from breathing glass.

When the tide returns it erases nothing. It only gathers the scattered mirrors and carries them outward, ringing, until the horizon glows like struck metal.