The air is soft and breathes
better than anywhere else
I could possibly be; there is no
pressure from behind,
no pressure to the west on
this fine grey morning.
The horizon is a line bound
only by my imagination and
the elk watch my back.
The only pressure is deep,
where the plates move, one
under the other, storing energy
that will eventually drop
the sand on which I stand
the height of a man.
Me, for example, probably taller.
The ocean will scour away
all traces of me and mine.
My lifetime; my choice.
The air will stay soft.
(top: info.geonet.org.nz; bottom: eandt.theit.org)
Narble Furt Lives 
We walked through some of the destruction in NZ, and it was very sobering.
Ha! Yes’m. That’s why I drink. But seriously, it is kind of rolling the dice, but this life is this life and I’m a beach kid. It’s a choice we’ve made with our eyes open. I hope you and MTM can visit when we get the house built. I’m a firm believer that you CAN go home again. Damn Thomas Mann.
It sounds so soft and lovely, but it is a hard truth!
Yep. It IS soft and lovely right up until the ground starts moving.
Lovely.