From work in progress:
Your breathing slows and the sound of it tails off, until the only sound is the rote of the surf and grass rustling in a breeze. You lie there, imagining dendrochronologies and biota turnover, an accelerated tableau of species exemplars dying en masse, returning to the earth to be succeeded by a panel of new exemplars differing in form from their predecessors, new body coverings, unfamiliar habits of locomotion, trees that somehow resemble cycads and cacti at the same time. You come to and lie in the dark reviewing what you have seen, listening to the surf as the breeze dies down, feeling the residual warmth of the day on your face and smelling the the peppery-sweet astringency of the melalecua oil at the back of the neck, trying to think whether, when you’d first come here, there had been the sound of cicadas, or whether this is something you remember from some other place or from a recording or whether, in fact, you have ever heard cicadas or have been applying the term to some other sound. At length you feel yourself drifting off. You wake some time later, having dreamt you were walking through a bamboo forest at a time of synchronous flowering, wondering when you were last in such a place, if ever, before drifting off again.