Death is here. It’s all over me. I made toast in the kitchen, and it died. I watched the rain die. I heard my voice die. Your voice, which I relied on, died. My vision died. My song died. My inner beach of comfort on sunset died. I have that cup for coffee, it died. Here, where I remember our confused hands learning; they died. And then, after I saw light die, and air die, erosion lived. My thread lives.

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“My words about erosion are only a struggle to get people to appreciate the fact that thriving environments are deeply dependent on erosion to exist.”