Flinty Mystery

Some rocks jut out jagged spears or cut back into dark caverns like a skeleton's yawning scream. Others show their faces—smooth as a woman's breast—tumbled, contoured, and polished by a raging mountain stream. Some rocks crumble into dust or shell a slippery slide like dry, shifting desert sand under the heel of my boot; others weather the elements through timeless evolution to hold solid where they stand. Some rocks bleed out red or spin forth pitch-black walls, while others deliver common tan. Natural science holds opinions on the cut of this jumbled array, but who can watch it happen beginning to end? Only one can. He who moves them about with a breath, as the world spins.