It’s that time of year when the rocks begin to migrate.
In the springtime, the stones in the trails press themselves down into the soft dirt and clay, aided by the trampling of boots, sandals, paws and sneakers. By mid-July, when the summer heat ripens the berries, bakes the clay, and beguiles the wild rose leaves to perfume the air, the tight-packed stones lay quietly aligned in faux-cobblestone corridors, unnoticed beneath the ballet of light and shadow, or the runners’ rhythmic footsteps, or the acrobatic antics of birds and butterflies.
But now, the first of the late summer rains have come to wash away the sand and dust. The cool drops kiss the thirsty stones and like sleeping princesses they begin to rise. First wiggling like loose teeth, then shifting and rising from their beds to begin their languid migration. They emerge from the center of the trails, inching imperceptibly nearer to the streams, aided by a kick here or a trip there, always closer to the water’s edge. Here, if prodded or provoked, they bounce, leap, or topple in: migrating ever closer to the great sea at the edge of the map.
There they tumble in the sand to be polished like gems in the laughing waters.
The quiet migration of rocks brings the mountains to the sea one small pebble at a time, melting even the most frozen and stubborn hearts of stone. And if you pay close attention, you can see it happening.
hmmm! observations of the littlest changes in nature are often the most profound! This is a really sweet one given my preference for rocks over people! 😂
A neat bucolic take on a little known cycle of life with evocative simile and metaphor. Thanks.