One hundred million years that point to this:
a thread across the bay, south and east;
storm battered longer than remembering.
Ancient thought thinning into mist;
an arrow crafted and sprung from the hand of God.
Now a picture of us both returning by the year
with our gifts for the arc of Time.
Scrambling up the incline to embrace the dazzled sea,
shadows of the selves we once thought our selves to be,
and now more than all of that:
two others run ahead,
a mirror for our footprints,
gathering driftwood memories.
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