31/05/2026
I am the mover
whose feet are sinking into cold wet sand
my hands are raised above my head
I feel dry, warm wind on the thin skin between my fingers
I reach down to my right and push my fingers into the ground
I feel the cold wet sand rearrange and coat the thin skin between my fingers
My spine curls upwards
Red sand paint slops from my fingers
Wet sand rearranges to dry