Stone

It isn’t much that a stone would think. But if it thought, it would think: I appreciate the warmth of the sun on my hard, grey skin. I will try to retain as much of it as possible, across my smooth body, turn myself to fire, burn even to pierce the calloused fingers and palms of humans who would pick me up to hurl me across insurmountable distances there is no returning from, away from here, away from the things I know so intimately because of how long I have been here, because of the slowness around me, the patient pace of nature, of deserts. Even these quick little pebbles have landed here and made home for decades. And the boulder above me has been my home and shade in the evenings. I watch it all. I feel the wind caress my sides, taking the sun's heat from me and up into the atmosphere. I hear the packs of coyotes whose ribs show, howling and yipping to organize and to play, it is a game of music for the California warm night's moon to enjoy.