jumbled heaps of stone,
rounded and jagged,
thrown upon meadows
green gold magenta blue,
like marbles—
dividing lakes, basins,
forming sinks, ridges,
a motionless flow
of peak to valley,
of forests walking
valley to peak,
left alone in this performance.
a silent poetry,
this chaotic granite reverie
of dancing lichens across their faces,
drunk from the rain
of yesterday’s storm.
the rocks—they breath and sing
you can hear them cracking
shifting endlessly the path of eternity
—ringing—
like church bells, gongs of thunder
the creeks go whispering,
to kneel at cascading pews.
and me?
observer, artist
crudely assigning foul names to unnameable experience,
only hoping to disappear within it,
float away on this river wildness—
these rapids white with utter indifference,
of rock meadow tree sky,
satisfied,
never needing the reason why.
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