The first syllable is sand. Grit under the tongue. Holy. Not the cathedrals of stone, but the cathedral of sky cracking open at noon. Palm fronds stitch the wind into a shroud. My shadow, the only other creature that prays here.
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There is a moment, after the roar of the sea has swallowed the last echo of the engine, when you realize you are not stranded. You are planted . The first syllable is sand