The Weight of the Tide

The moon does not ask for permission to rise. It simply arrives, a cold weight pulling at the salt and the silt. We spend our lives measuring the distance between the shore and the deep, convinced that we are the ones who decide when to leave and when to stay. But the water knows better. It moves because it must. There is a silence that follows the tide, a stillness that settles over the harbor when the wind dies down and the world holds its breath. It is a heavy, blue quiet. In the north, we learn that the night is not a void; it is a mirror. It reflects the things we are too busy to notice during the day—the slow erosion of stone, the patient waiting of the boats, the way the light changes when no one is watching. What remains when the tide finally pulls away from the pier?

Nilla Palmer has captured this stillness in her image titled The Rising of the Moon. The water holds the light as if it were a secret. Does the moon look the same from where you are standing?