I Always Knew
I always knew that I would find this world someday. Surrounded by prairie, I knew I would find it. There were small riverbeds and endless fields-all the accoutrements of the temperate grasslands of home. But amidst this meadowscape, fragments of forgotten oceans haunted the ground-there were grains of rock, a colored mineral, remnants of shells. All hinted at a prior waterscape. It is probable the pieces were not of any inland seas. Still, their suggestion allowed my imagination to find ripples in what could be reality. When I stared at the countryside, the levelness of the landscape began to surge into watery swell. When I walked, I felt the earth undulate under my feet. When I stood, I slipped through the ground. And so I continued on this way, bound by the geography of my birth but waiting patiently and longingly. I always knew I would find it, and then I found it. Just as it had always patterned itself, rising and falling, frightening and calming, it appeared before me. But, this time, I became a part of its history both quietly and insignificantly. I knew I would find it.