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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.
Copyright ©
Cona Adams
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