The waves roll back and forth,
crashing. Always crashing.
It crests and then falls,
tumbling down and uprooting the serenity of placement beneath it.
So too do bits of hardened sand and stone get washed away,
exposing the soft clay beneath.
Pounded and damaged, a hurt looking life.
The marmoset turns and blinks; a slow, painstaking blink.
And so, the rain begins.