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Literature Text
They think I'm odd for speaking to the ocean. But it's not so strange as all that. The sea is a good listener.
I find Her messages sometimes, on yellowed parchment in glass bottles or faded letters upon the sand that She always takes back. Other days I hear Her voice sighing on the breeze or coming from a pink conch shell half buried under kelp. The raspy echoes tickle my ears and I know She is happy.
Then there are evenings when She boils with rage and frustration and I see Her fury plain in shallow tide pools and know it is a warning to stay away – run to the high ground before the hurricane hits.
They think I'm odd for talking to the sea, but they always heed my alarm.
I find Her messages sometimes, on yellowed parchment in glass bottles or faded letters upon the sand that She always takes back. Other days I hear Her voice sighing on the breeze or coming from a pink conch shell half buried under kelp. The raspy echoes tickle my ears and I know She is happy.
Then there are evenings when She boils with rage and frustration and I see Her fury plain in shallow tide pools and know it is a warning to stay away – run to the high ground before the hurricane hits.
They think I'm odd for talking to the sea, but they always heed my alarm.
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I love the way you capitalized She and Her... it seems so fittingly reverent.