Navigating a field of stones ‘longside a stand of redwoods, I noticed that each rock had its own shape and size. No two had the same color or texture. And some were strikingly different, one splashed with burning auburn, another glimmering ebony with marbleized turquoise veins. I fingered one, ran my dusty fingers over its soapstone belly. It had its own unique past by which it arrived before my eyes at this moment in history. Were I to know this past, to have watched over this piece of earth as Someone bears silent watch over every event, each moment of my life, I would know exactly why its back was rough and its belly smooth, why it had a white scar on its lime green skin. There would be no judgment as to its particular hue and shape and place in things.
© 2015 by Michael C. Just