I used to stand on grassy bluff of Fort Bragg’s ragged coast, observing the battlefield below— angry water versus steadfast land. Being young and full of motion, I sided with the sea. Attack was always quenched back then by strength of solid rock. Still I cheered the young and angry sea, and still it pounded. After many battles passed, some broken rocks, a lot of motion, I came again to grassy bluff, and looked from different view. Now memory moved, met solid desire, armies under different flags. Where before the rock was winning, the sea was breaking through. Gentle rolls still swelled in shallows near the shore, then toppled hard against the cliff. Resistance waned in longer view, Some rocks had slid away. Memory kept rolling in, breaking stone, dissolving need, taking it off in painful bits to spread beneath the sea.