They do not know why, or even what,

left them in this algae- throated stream.

Sunlight lapses,

no longer strokes the arms of aspens.

Night arrives,

and the stones lie in darkness.     

                             

Water licks them,

whistles sensually against their hard skin.

The stones do not think of disappearing,

of no longer being,

or why they are wed so brief a time to water.

All they know is learned from fossils

pressed deep into their sturdy flesh.

 

I walk across them, an acrobat praying for balance.

Midstream, I reach the largest, and it happens.

The stream goes away, the darkening sky recedes.
There is no sound or sight, only the wisdom of touch.  

 

For a holy moment in which the world stops,

there is nothing but stone.
Nothing but stone anywhere in the world.