The wind swept the leagues of sea-foam up onto the shore, mingling there apathetically, before returning home. The sand shone like polished brass, and the sun, bloated and full, exhumed beauty through the medium of light. It spilled over everything. There were no exceptions, nothing could be exempt from the arches of gold that spiraled through the treetops before resting on the ocean floor.
It is found underneath the rotting log, between the hermit crab's legs, bouncing off the seagull's feathers, churns through the waterfalls. 
And we, perceived as so small, yet behold the world in its entirety, can do the same. Able to give unconditionally just as easily, have our charity of love expand just as softly. When asked of my dreams, I think of this.