Sand mirrors are optimists. They find blue in grey skies.
Steep shoulders of stones are swept neat, higher than you've seen them. Acres of loose cobbles try to keep you away. Flint fists rock under your heels, make you awkward as you slide. Every footfall a percussion, a collision. Sudden shifts and scree-falls tell every stone that you are still upright. You want to meet the dark reflection that won't let you go, let the only sound be how the wind sculpts your back.
Run-offs. Rivulets. Sketches of deltas and estuaries. Etch-a-sketch grit that falls into creases. Upturned shells. A gull struggling with a live starfish. Left behind after the sweeping, a line of stones on a rise of sand.
Black dots swarm closer, outline the shape of bigger beings. Gather into rising clouds that storm and fall away.