The setting sun pierced between gnarled branches of vegetation, casting shadows of mangled figures on the ground below. Reaching my hand beneath the surface and drawing it upward, a stream of sand flowed back down to the earth. Again I grasped the sand in my palm but clasped it tightly as if to manipulate its form, but the grains resisted their mold and returned to their resting place as before. There they remained, tightly contained yet loosely gathered. With the breeze, one grain may flow with many others, or it may travel with very few. Nonetheless, the wind will cease and that grain will rest, perhaps near its origin or maybe far from home.
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