The tide didn't wait for me last night

I'm standing in the estuary at low water, but the mud is wrong—too dry, cracked like old bread. The tide comes in slow, polite, and I'm trying to talk to it, but it just keeps rising, lapping at my boots, and I realize I'm not supposed to be here. I woke up with salt on my lips and the sense that I'd been forgiven for something I hadn't done yet.