River Stones

These are the stones that ground dull nails and sharpened talons, they have slid under mountains of ice and fire, are polished by the grind of a glacial momentum. The stones endure now as layers of motion sealed within catchments of stillness; some are wind-tools shaped by a tireless chisel, other’s glint with a history and crushed starlight. The river has left signs of its scouring trace. I turn a stone over – look backward to a molten world, imagining the imperceptible burnishing of such relentless forces. Thought is a fish out of water here, mind at one with the ice floes momentum, a witness to the passing away of all density, the defeat of every bulwark in the stream of this rivering, this endless whittle of creation.