The Stones

The Stones

Any rockslide's bound to leave a mark.

Boulder fields tell stories

of old adjustments made to mountains

you can read them just like

you read the rings of trees or ponds.

I heard about a boulder field

in North Carolina once where people came with

hammers 'cause the rocks would sing when you

beat them.

I have made adjustments too

thanks to gravity and late winter

ice, but I have yet to hear

the song my rocks might sing. I'm not in

charge of this shift in my face, only

responsible

for being brittle enough to come

down. I take on a new name

with each rockslide, each

new face, names as arbitrary as clouds

because I do not do

the naming. People project their dreams

upon a silhouette, they call

me Fortress, they call me Thunder,

they call me Old Man. In South

Dakota once, they jack hammered

dead politicians into

the sides of mountains, and now faithful

pilgrims lay gifts there

at the base of the rockslide, buy

trinkets to clasp later as they mumble

their prayers. I'll not

be shaped by jack hammers, even

if you promise me gifts

and worship. I am

the work of another, faults in my granite

bright with potential. Ice and gravity

wind and water know best

what I will be when I am done.