Waiting for the Tide

for 3 Word Wednesday

From across a mudflat, a plover's whistle
pulls open a thought zipper, in the corridors
of my thinker I find a lingering memory:
on a fog-gray morning warmth leaves
with the subtlety of a garbage truck.

A memory within a memory pulls
through my chest like a knotted rope,
like puddles on the mudflat I find
low places to wait for next tide,
and the girl in the moon.