Twice a day

The moon brings the water.

It pushes into the river, fills every bend and lifts boats from the mud.

Some leave.

Others don’t.

They settle back into the same hollows.

On their sides.

Against one another.

Tilted and unnatural.

Pushing the snooze button.

Snuggling a while longer in the smooth silt of things that once lived.

Leaves. Grass. Wood. Animals.

Things far too gone to recognize.

Worms live in it.

They burrow beneath the surface and into old planks.

The boat feels them moving.

At low tide birds arrive.

They walk around on thin legs, pecking at the hulls.

There is just enough time before the water rises for the mud to dry.

It crusts along the gunwales, turning from dark to lighter brown and grey.

Little sticks and strands of grass trapped in it.

Waiting to rot.

For their turn to become pulp.

Then the water comes.

Birds leave.

Worms disappear below.

Boats lift.

For a few hours they float again.

They could sail if they wanted.

Some do.

I don’t.

The tide retreats and I settle back into the same hollow.

The mud has learned my shape.

Or I have taken its shape.

Hard to tell.

Morning comes.

Evening follows.

Crews move on.

New plans. New places. New laughter.

The tide rises.

I feel myself lift.

But I stay.

Twice a day it returns.

I remember the sea.