Salt Harvest at the Edge of Morning

Before sunrise, the flats lie open like a library written in mica and thirst. Wind combs the shallow pans until the dark begins to taste of silver.

Men and women move through the pale geometry, their rakes drawing long vowels in the brine. Each stroke lifts a hush of crystals, small cold stars gathering against their boots.

Far off, the sea keeps its enormous counsel, breathing through pipes, through gulls, through rusted rails. Light arrives by degrees, a blade warmed slowly in the hand.

Then the whole field kindles. Salt flashes white enough to ring the eyes, and morning, carried in the bodies of workers, goes inland on their shoulders like weather.