Standing Stones

They grow out of our minds. They excavate the past with the jaw bones of concussed elks, time is not in them, it is only we who shimmer then disappear. Wind and a cold moonlight carves them still. They are the blunt teeth of an endless angry sky. The undead deadness of their weight anchors the soil keeps it from flying away. If we let them they will ask of us, lead us to recall the dust in our green bones.