I dreamed the oyster beds were singing

I was standing knee-deep in the tidal flat at dawn, not cold, just still. The shells weren’t opening—they were humming. Low, resonant, like a choir of old bones remembering their names. I didn’t understand the words, but I knew it was a prayer. Not mine. Not anyone’s. Just the tide’s way of saying: we are here. When I woke, the silence in the cottage felt heavier. Like something had left, or been returned.