Out where we walk there are occasional round
white pebbles interspersed with the others —
the brown, grey, the black, the undecided.
I’m not sure, but we were out for a stroll at dusk
last evening, the little dog’s ears suddenly pricked up,
and we thought we heard the white ones humming.
It was not the kind of hum one might imagine —
it is so easy to be deceived by ambient imitations,
to be distracted by the spurious sorcery of delusion.
I don’t know, but perhaps at certain times, like dusk,
the different colored rocks alternate, and yesterday
it was the round white ones’ turn to perform.
My initial reaction was to bend and pick one up,
as if it were something I could own. We’ve all done
that before. However, now, for some reason, I refrained.
I just left it in place, as it was. There was a momentary
pause, filled with all the splendors found in silence,
then the stones resumed their mantric humming.
Now it all seemed so natural, so right. A hint of rain
teased the cooling sky, sunset had been brief. I leaned
and whispered to the dog: “There’s nothing we can own.”