Atop jagged peaks jutting into the sky,
Beneath twisted trees draped in snow,
There is a pebble.
Across an empty clearing, a chickadee chatters
And a squirrel–tail twisting and flickering like uneasy fire–
Flies up a lodgepole.
The pebbles rests, below.
Trees creak with heavy cloaks of winter snows.
Clouds stumble past the peaks
Like drunken guests,
Weeping diamonds and crystal coins.
But the pebble is quiet.
The sun sets and sets and sets a million times.
Through blizzards and windstorms
The years run off in the soft song of melting snow.
Through it all, the pebble waits, patient.
That is all I know.