Sandstone

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This land moves. When I’m not in the kitchen and I have a few hours, when the tide isn’t to high, when I can be arsed getting out of my hammock, I go for a walk.

To the caves.

It’s always changing. The pillars of soft sandstone come apart in your hands when you touch them.

Sea Hawks circle above. Hundreds of crabs scamper away as you approach.

Cyclones and king tides, taking the red dirt into the sea.

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