Sunset Over Boundary Bay’s Mirror-Mud

At Boundary Bay, sunrise has not yet torn free of the horizon when the tide arrives like a soundless silver thread, slipping inland along the estuary. River water, summoned by the moon, climbs back inch by inch, re-stitching the exposed mudflats into the sea’s embrace. The advance is unhurried: countless glassy fingers probe every hair-line crack, a slow-motion rainfall falling upward into earth. In the hollows the soil at first darkens, then yields to filigree whorls—commas left half-written, paper balls smoothed by an invisible hand, hesitant ripples signed and instantly erased by the next quiet sheet of water. The entire foreshore becomes breathing parchment; tide is ink, time is pen, forever rewriting its own vanishing signature.