Pin It I crouch in the confluence of three boulders rolled touching in this clear water. By time a waist-high seat is formed, water fills my lap; I nestle down in my throne of stone laved by liquid river.
I think of how many moments it would take to make me one with these stones, how long before I would meld with stone armrest and back. My joints are already stiffening of ankle, knee and toes in this mountain water. Rafters would pass by my bony remains in throne of stone; I, skull grinning, unseeing, having recorded a century before:
The surround sound vigilance of eternal falls of whitewater,
Boulders angrily thrust away by powerful river arms and strewn at base of cedar trees so massive; the boulder, though room size, appear as mere tree roots. The backwash trickle over stones in river greedily slurping the wake as though a crystal sliver of fish perpetually strokes upstream.
I, a fool before nature, try to describe its grandeur in its little ways; I suffer for my lack of language. Any language is mere mockery.
Why do I try?
It matters not to God.
The very words have become the thing. In the wording it is His already.
Perhaps in my puny attempts to put useless words into the details and struggle to encompass one perfect word for the whole of this almighty scene, I acknowledge the reason it is here; the reason why I never tire of its ceaselessness as final and irrefutable proof that I, too, am immutable.