Rhiza

Rhiza tells time by the tide. The red mangrove stands on stilt roots in the tidal dark — arching prop roots that breathe at low water and drown twice daily without complaint — and her whole life is scheduled by the moon's commute. Fish nurseries school among her roots; crabs commute up her trunks; the tide brings the sea's gossip and takes it away again. "The tide," she says, "is the only clock that never needs winding." She filters salt through her roots and exhales it through her leaves, a desalination plant with opinions. The Deep Root keeps its ledgers in rings; Rhiza keeps hers in tide lines, twice daily, forever. Asked about the Missing Ring — the year the world didn't grow — she considers the tides that year and says: "The water came and went as always. Whatever stopped, it wasn't the sea. The sea does not stop for anyone's mystery."