And the mountains.
Land crumpling upon itself.
Folding back, then reaching the sky.
Carrying the ocean up to the sky, its very body transformed.
I’m amazed at the unimaginable pressures that have formed the body of this land. Transformed it from ocean floor to masses of rock in the sky.
This is what I’m seeking, really, every August. This transformed land, resting in shrouds of water vapor. Ocean born.
It’s from the ocean, in every way.
Even those mystery forests beneath their cool and silken mists.
From my land of warm and dry air, scented with sage and pine and creosote, I can sometimes feel the chill breath of a hidden forest pool.
Tiny ferns overhang. Tiny leaves damply transport earth’s cycling waters from the open sky back to the rough substance of the planet. And back to the ocean. Endlessly.
That’s all I want.