Wherefore the marram grass settled the land there also sprang the children who are as the sand in the sea, and houses on stilts as good as gone. Yet here to this day wash in all the revelations of all the nations which are from the corners of the earth and the number of which is as the sand of the sea and as many as the stars in heaven. Multitudes. And the sand, which is by inland glacier, and the shores, innumerable, and endangered, and taken away by scenic road and path, and whatever remnant shall be saved is caught in the web and warp and weave of balding stretches of marram where the heron hides at twilight that sprang from the seed head. Which is open. Which has no skull. Which has no remembered present. Memory as in flesh, then, pre-coded and categorized memory the chaff of which is functional as seed and the rest of which is multifarious and continuous and revised and revisited as rain is revised by sand and sand is revisited by rain. Which arrives from clouds glaciers could have been. The fore-dune is eaten to an open shelf exposing marram root. Largely rhizome itself, fiber more than anything else, a cousin to wool, you can pull it out but it’s hard to do that to it, it is so inextricable. And why would you wish to anyway? And at that the look goes up above the sand shelf. Not so much a path as a brook of sand that is beach spill from legions of feet leads up and back into the canopy, where our observations can again live the good life of myriad endless moods. Of the very first serenity. The very first author. Moods which critique and savage one another into a sense of territory precisely the way observant chickadees bicker of occupation in the choked undergrowth sparse enough almost to be a clearing. These observant chickadees are also forms water assumed. Water, fine and sensitive element, widespread element. Thoreau said it that way. He died not long after he passed by here on his way back from Minnesota, where of all places in this nation of nations his lungs were to heal. He was also a form water assumed. Every successive liveliness gets taller towards light. All day on the beach are people at a distance, the words of whom cannot be made out. But the trees behind them and you all normally watching the lake can be heard. You don’t even have to turn around. The body understands these old green voices. The rustle can sound like the lake itself. It can rattle like the ghost of a whale. Up in the leaves with out words wind is the throat that swallows us all.