Longer rivers run to the sound
where the commerce plays out
its jangling game.

When once we were mountains,
no more than bare bluffs now,
each jutting a finger of mudflats
untrod and untouching for the tide
has turned once more, lifting the drift
and carrying our past verdant
intrepid days into the sea,
upon the waves, to be spat
onto another shore strange
with blunt shell, burnt pebbles,
and the neverminds of the locals.

But perhaps it is in our nature to weather,
to erode, to spill our alluvial fans
to any passing angler who'll listen,
perhaps the boulders we tumbled
to our own demise are no more,
no more than jagged or smooth grains,
packed, pounded, arranged
for the foot of a marveling toddler
on her first time at the shore.