They camped on the dunes in a gap in the thorny smilax. The sky cleared and spilled out stars. Every breath smelled of silica and iodine. Their fire on the beach was less than minuscule, and its curl of smoke rose into a night too enormous to say. A hunter’s moon pulled at the willing water, crashing it against the edge of the continent, and the pulse of that liquid piston was better than any song. There was so much to life, too much, more than Beaulieu could do justice to, more than any living thing could guess at or merit. She loved it all, even humans, for without the miracle of human
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