I bent over to pick up a small, pink stone

It glittered in the early morning sun,

Speaking a sunrises and sunsets,

 A baby’s scalp after a bath

The underbelly of my cat.

I slipped it into my jacket pocket

It’s weight negligible

At the crest of a hill a striated rock caught my attention.

The dark lines, close to the purple of my bedspread,

Seemed darkly ominous

But I didn’t know why.

A stone cannot harm me unless tossed in my face.

It bears no ill-will and harbors no grudges.

Yet if frightened me so much so that I hurried away.

At the bottom of a lake a cluster of green stones called my name.

They were quite lovely, speaking of life and growth and wealth

And health and all things good.

I yearned to take just one.

But if I did, would the pile change?

Would it no longer speak to the next passerby?

I sat on a fallen log, weighing whether or not to slip

The smallest one into my pocket.

Until a scrub jay warned me.

At the top of the mountain, I crossed a plane

Of striated rocks.

What caused the unusual markings?

Fire? Rain? Snow? Glaciers?

Perhaps all four.

I had to touch the smooth surface,

Wanting to know, to understand,

How they came to be.

I closed my eyes, raised my head toward the sky

And listened.

For what I did not know.

I stood there for what seemed like a long time.

When no voice filled my ears, I shook off the feeling

Of foreboding that had come over me.

These rocks, this hill, offered only a sense of

Ill will.

I shouldered my pack and retraced my steps.

Just as I closed my car door, lightning lit up the sky

And thunder roared all around me

As I rubbed the two little stones

Nestled in the warmth of my coat.