Tidal Pools at Dawn

The tide pulls back like a held breath, leaving mirrors in the stone. In each shallow pool, a galaxy— anemones breathing, invisible currents turning sand into constellations.

A hermit crab travels his entire world in seven steps, carrying the borrowed shell of something older. He doesn't know the ocean waits beyond the rim. He knows the taste of salt, the architecture of shadows.

Morning light breaks across the water. Small fish dart like thoughts half-remembered, never quite named. Everything here feeds on what the sea discarded—the rejected, the broken, the possible.

We stand above, watching, our shadows too large for these rooms. We've forgotten how to live in a single handful of water, how abundance hides in small places, how survival is patient.