What the Tide Leaves

The tide withdraws its argument each morning, leaving glass and bone and the soft currency of things that once belonged to someone.

A heron stands in the retreating water like a thought refusing to finish itself, one leg lifted, waiting for the grammar to return.

I have been here before in a different body— younger, carrying a name that fit me loosely, watching the same kelp breathe against the stones.

The sea does not remember us, which is the kindest thing it does. It only offers back what we can carry, smoothed into new shapes, emptied of their origins.

Whatever grief I brought this morning I have placed between two rocks. The water will decide what it is worth.