The Sentinels metanoia

born of sand and sea, but eyes held fire.

he pressed through the deadwood, fur tangled with twigs and leaves. the roar of ocean called to him, but the cool of greenery soothed his soul. new life budded where old life fell. this was his purpose cast out in nature — a figure of aspiration beheld in inferno sight.

lips parted to whisper a hymn of woodland and growth. his heart fluttered, his face flush.

aged bones gave a pop as he steadied himself through the sentinels, the cry of sea grew closer still.