I am a grain of sand
Ground away from the small stone that
Ice's swellings have broken away from
The larger rock of which it was part
And which itself was rolled or carted thence
Whence it was quarried
Part of no continent
Save that the actions of wind and wave might cast me upon one
But they can take me away as easily
Even if I seem to have lodged again
In the crotches of oak or cedar or mesquite
Rising from the rolling limestone hills
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