Flying Stones

[Guest guest]

A teenager pitched a rock through my window. So now, my occupation is gathering

rocks in the adjacent lot. I never seen so many rocks. I have gathered already

two wheelbarrows of rocks. I don't blame the teenager, I blame the rocks. Stones

like to fly and they ask children for a ride.

 

It has been interesting. They are so dissimilar, those rocks: So many sizes, and

colors,

and textures. The lot is like a city of rocks. Some look native to the soil,

others are foreigners who arrived long ago from God knows where. A few are very

smooth and round

and hefty- good stones to throw. You can tell they came from some river or

shore. Others are jagged and evil looking, they have the looks of killers rocks.

I wish they would talk to me, but rocks are very snobbish, they only talk to

geologists, or kids.

 

Kids and stones go way back. The beginning of their love affair is lost in time.

It was probably a child who threw the first stone to an animal. And it was to

this child that

the rock whispered a message now lost. A message and a promise of fruitful

partnership- of weapons, and power and cities and roads, and kingdoms to come.

 

Yes, we became really human when we began fashioning rocks to suit our needs.

We shaped them and they shaped us. So when I lift my wheelbarrow full of stones

I feel like a Sumerian. And the Zen Garden boulders left behind wink wisely in

the sun.

 

Pete

 

 

 

 

 

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