Kissed by the waking sun, the rain of the night before becomes undone, rising in a steaming haze, as we make our way to the place, where the land is mostly sand, that meets the road where the ocean breezes blows.
There, in a silver glow, we kneel below the banks where the earth is wet and dank; sheltered from the wind as the buoy bells ring and the sea grasses sing; notes of promise of what this day will bring.
We reach into our bags and bring forth our treasured moulds, of glass and plastic spheres, cracked and chipped and old; each one holding a vision, we unfold.
We fill them up with grains of sand and place them upside down with loving
hands, as we wander through the visions in our mind; we watch transfixed, as the magic of our dreams unwind.
We work for hours lost in time, carving roads that twist and wind, that lead us to the very end of day, where we stand amazed, at the empire we have made, as we walk home in a daze.
In the morning, eyes aglow, we return, to the banks below, in time to see our empire fly away, nothing more than grains of sand, upon an ever changing wind that blows.
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