Power, like resources, tends to be patchy.
Occasionally it appears more uniform,
Distributed like ocean waves or sand dunes
In vast swaths of scalloping near repetition.
They interchange, not only the lines of power
But the very nature of the view. This desert
Was once rippling with waves of fresh lava
Wavering the air, and was once a shallow
Inland sea, salt waves to the horizon. But,
The habit of wavering, of snaking along, ebb
And surge, withdraw and return, is hard
For this world to break. It is, after all, all
Waves in the end, although the amplitude
Varies across vast scales and at all scales.
The results trickle in, or come in rollers,
Breakers, tides, tsunami now and again.
Change, unlike power, remains continuous
But can swell so it feels like pure rupture
Or sink back to the whisper of a few grains
Of sand moving along the edge of a reservoir
In a time still littered with the tracks of dinosaurs.
How big was the last wave? And will the next
Erase it and all the powerful beasts caught in it?
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