a stone, fleeced in the cold embrace of a passing stream, stands alone in full company.
bold, and staunch, in the face of an unbroken current, the stone stands seemingly still.
nothing like the pressure of water and time can mold stillness into movement.
my great, great, great offspring will sit here on this bank and see a pebble of my stone--and likely, they'll see nothing at all.
A log, or a branch--a flush of upstream detritus--and my melon sized stone will dislodge from its nook, and move on from this mellow place i sit.
as unknown as its' future may lie, what unknowns for my stone have already come to be?
did this stone sit atop that ridge up yonder? through the oaks, and the furs--surrounded by eagles and the breeze?
did it stand atop that ridge and wish upon the day that a storm would carry it and the mud down through the roots and the bush, down past the early spring buds and the sopping wet leaves, down to the babbling thread of life singing wet sonnets for the forest to adore?
and now, fleeced in the cold embrace of a flowing stream, does it miss the high altitude? does it miss the mountain fog and the misty views? does it yearn for the day when that upstream log will dislodge it towards adventures to come?
the stone stands alone in full company, today as it is.
the stream flows over and by, away from this mellow place, while the stone and i sit. what more could we possibly do?