The boulder was not magnetic and yet
it drew us to the creek bed
where it sat beside the dark waters
while we sat on it and looked and listened

I say the waters were dark but really
they were clear the darkness
was in the moss rippling beneath them
as if to the tinkling gurgling music rushing past

The granite stone was more than a stool
for beings who did not exist when it was born
it was a gallery with a single exhibit
revealing just how much beauty could be wrought

by pure randomness with no visible artist
the quartz and feldspar flecked with mica
shining even in the shade of the giant cottonwood
inviting eyes and fingers to explore

or simply to rest silently soaking it in
This was the place we came to when our father
tired of hitting us and we slunk away
to be alone or alone together

and to be soothed by the sound of the waters
and the sure presence of the boulder
something older and stronger than us
with no desire to harm us

Occasionally the glint of the mica
would be answered by the flashing scales
of a bluegill swimming furiously against the current
so much energy spent to remain in one place

yes what I’m saying is he was one of us
perhaps also drawn by the boulder’s mysterious power
it never would have occurred to us
to try to capture or kill him

There were other places to pause
fallen branches and the chain-sawed stump
of another cottonwood but still the glittering
boulder was always the only choice

and how strange that I should be there right now
though it no longer exists except far down inside me
which may be how what disappears
lives on and the dark waters keep flowing flowing