Tide rise on the Kill Van Kull

Seaweed at the Kill Van Kull binds the sharp stones its firm grip as the tide oozes down the green sides into a bubbling mass near the foot of the dock, sticks and stone tortured by the rise and fall of the salty flow as gulls screech overhead in agony or job, dipping beats into the shrinking broth to snatch the silver slivers before all slips away, the up and down making the old wood moan, rusted chains holding each plank in place so they must endure each painful lash, groaning under the seductive kiss of wind and the savage slap of sun, tides rising, then falling, only to rise again, never satisfied, always aching for one more lick until their victims splinter and float away like ancient sea men setting sail into dark places from which they may never return.