The stumped remnants of the Mangrove trees rise above the white sand like burnt stumps.  Roots returning to nurture the intertidal garden.  Each stump a five fingered blessing reaching open handed into the sand. Seeking beyond salt crystals for the sparkling minerals of life as their organic selves become nurture for nature a few decades from now.

In the rock formations of the limestone islands the tides have washed open caves.  Sanctuaries.  Sanctuary cities for bats and other birds.  The stalagmites dripping a fresh water sweat.  An inverted bird bath. Along the tide line the polished coral sand rolls with remnants of the under-life.

Perched on a rock a giant shell.  Did the waves wash you ashore?  Or was the tide line higher once upon a time?  Did someone plant you playfully as an archeological future find? The answers would be lovely, but the mystery is humbling.

The waves polish the root remnant.  Under the waves a shell emerges. What else do the waves hide from view?  Who can count the period cycles of the waves? A surfer? A drowning swimmer? A sleeping sailor? If someone told the waves to be still would there be an underworld, a mystery?