Drifting…

Drifting.

Slowly rotating. 

I am face down, floating above the canyon. Floating in this memory of Ocean. The current turns me over and once again I am facing up. The light of the sun illuminating and fragmenting. 

Upon the harvest of its cycle the sky will tear open. Encapsulated in a rich membrane, the offspring will plunge down beneath the surface of the Ancient Ocean. The impact will rip them open, and through this violent act they hatch. A toiling and vulnerable mass they are, writhing all around me, leaving a trail of red as they sink further down into the enormous trench. 

I will sink with them until I phase out of this memory.