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.