Of what now amounts to months worth of prayer hours, I’ve heard mere minutes of the dialogue that’s taken place between my mom, Rose, and God.

I see a string of a spider web that catches the light too, but if I move my eyes just slightly, the angle from the sun is switched and the web is no longer seen.

Today I'm at a different shoreline: the even more “Pacific” Coast. A different demographic. People still.

Being here is like opening a time capsule. The park still has its Red Rover-ready grassy field, and is shaded by the same Eucalypti that have earned the park's name.

The river’s melodic splashes are seemingly insignificant today, but multiplied by millions of years, bring boulders to pebbles and carve valleys out of mountains.

And so it goes. The cycle of life, culture, consciousness, change. Perpetual change.

They stretch toward that far away sun a final time, and begin their transformation into the soil where they once took root. Different in many ways, but exactly the same in birth and in death.

With the gifts of boredom and time, I walk for the sake of walking. I turn down roads I’ve never walked down before, and stop to smell unfamiliar plants that enjoy the sun as much as I do.

Unashamed, I let the light fall on my pale breasts. Their mellow peaks shine as the valley between them hides beneath their shadow.