We will be motes in the ocean again soon, leached out of the soil of some graveyard, and everlastingly rocking.
That is my sense of an afterlife and my comfort. The hurly-burly of streambed turmoil will be our last rush-hour traffic — thocketing through boulders, past perch pools and drift logs. Enough, we will say, reaching tidewater. We saw enough.— Edward Hoagland, Compass Points