Inventory of the Tide Clock

At dawn the harbor opened its blue cabinet, and the tide clock clicked with a dentist's patience. Gulls stitched the air with chalky beaks, while the pilings wore their barnacle jewelry.

A boy in yellow boots dragged a bucket of eels, their silver grammar flashing and vanishing. The water kept returning what it had lost: rope, crate, bottle-glass, the smell of tin.

On the far breakwater, a woman mended nets with a needle the size of a fishing memory. Each knot held a small, wet darkness, a pocket where the sea could breathe.

By noon the sun unlatched the roofs. Even the shadows thinned to nettle threads. I left with salt on my wrists, as if the morning had signed my name.