It is 6:00pm and the sun has almost left the sky. Winter is approaching.

I go outside, and decide to head toward the beach. This may be the last time I will be able to practice my artwork.

I go with no art supplies but my fingers.

My house is only a few blocks length from the beach. I walk the distance quickly. When I get there, I see the last of the beachcombers packing up and leaving. That is good. It leaves me more space for my art.

I find a part between the burning dry sand and the wet cool sand. There the sand is perfect.

I sit down and start making shapes with my finger in the sand. The shapes take the forms of faces, of buildings, of nature, of anything I want.

I stay for an hour, maybe two, making my beautiful picture. For it is one great big mural of a lovely place, with room to race, to explore, and see more.

Those rhyming words were from a poem I wrote in third or fourth grade, I'm not sure which anymore.

I get up and walk towards the beach entrance, only turning once more, to get one final look at my work.

I know that it will be physically gone by this time tomorrow, from being beaten up by fierce waves and trampled on by people, but it will still be there, in that it was an imprint of me, forever to stay there on the sand.