There is a breeze, umoya, that wafts like a spirit, umoya, over the sand and between the cross currents of the mind.

There is a human on the shore, with waist length dreadlocks, forehead broad like a horizon, smart shirt shimmering bright as noon. He holds beads and a small bottle that he fills with sand and seawater as he chants to the ocean and the notes dissolve like salt.

I tread the sand, millions of years in the making, like all our lives, whether crafted into flag-flying castles to be photographed for a price, or sifted unseen below the tides.



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