I composed and waited for the alignment of the frisbee to the pyramid, of the frisbee to his outstretched hands and for the gesture that made it appear he was climbing the sands of time. The time I spent watching his frisbee ballet. His pyramid of sand, so meticulously built, would only last the night before the tides and tourists destroyed it. A child would leap upon it careless and unaware of his invested time. Just as the flip of an hourglass, he appeared the next evening to begin again. And so it was that we measured twilight to twilight in my little town. This man. He believed in the poetry of spin. He spoke of orbits and rotations and the wisdom of letting the wind carry the burden when the disc began to wobble. The disc, he said, could save the world.