Fort Pulaski sits at the mouth of the Savannah River – boats come to and fro, entering and leaving the Atlantic. At low tide, I sit at the edge of the jetty, watching the blue green waters swirl around the rocks. Gulls call and dive, chasing schools of fish smaller than your thumb. The wind ruffles the smooth water, whispering through the reeds, lifting my hair. Cotton clouds drift across the clear sky, the smell of small and mud reaches my nose. Small crabs creep across overturned oysters, bleached to an iridescent white. And the sun: all the while, the sun shines down, warming the rocks, warming my skin, filtering down to the depths in wavering rays – it flashes on silver scales, reflecting back on the waves gently breaking along the shore.