Great, warm wet ocean rolling, curving, boiling cauldron.

Little grains of sand – brown, white, clear, black.

Thrown together onto the beach.

A small layer, a medium layer, a deep layer compressed into rock.

Hundreds of feet thick. Exposed to elements, rain, cold, wind, snow.

No warm carboniferous sun here. Just a windy plateau of a rock face.

Small am I in Nature’s World. One summer I climbed up

to an old beach and touched black rough rock.

So it was here? Where my hand is?

No ghosts haunt me, no spirits torment me. I understand.




sandoceantimemountaingeological processmother nature

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