A Room Among the Rocks

The tide has left a room among the rocks. A shrimp, transparent as a peeled-off skin, backs under weed. The water scarcely moves except where sand is breathing through a wormhole. My daughter kneels and puts her shadow in. The little creatures vanish into cracks. She shifts an inch; the sunlight fills the pool. One by one, their legs begin again. Above us, on the headland, someone mows. The engine rises, labours, falls away. Here, a red anemone takes hold of something neither one of us can see. She asks how long this water has to wait. I point beyond the ledge. A fraying line of foam unthreads itself across the sand. Already, one low channel has gone dark. We stay until a wave clears the worn lip and lifts the weed. Her face breaks into light; mine follows. When the water settles back, the shrimp is standing farther up the rock. She takes my hand to climb. Her palm is cold. Behind us, water finds another notch. We hear it spilling long after the pool has disappeared beneath the folded shore.