Driftwood

My hands gripped driftwood. I was sat on a rock during the end of winter when my knife carved into the stick.

The wooden face began to appear more and more as the sun began to set. My body was shivering while my hand kept picking.

As I worked I noticed the lack of form. I didn't like it.

I threw the stick with a huff, I heard the sounds of rocks being hit. My eyes watched the soles of my feet as I heard breathing ring in my ears.

I looked up to see the sun setting over the ocean.

My legs stopped twitching as amazement gushed over me. My hands no longer wanted to pick so much at that driftwood.