Thursday, September 17, 2015
It's camping tourists who make them now.
I've grumbled about that urge to own
a mirror in the bush, to erect a mark
so the wild must order itself around the builder.
Time was, to the north, serious stone men
stood sentinel over caribou runs and turned meat
toward the spears --- but these are play,
toddler-tall, a feckless dozen or so gathered
into balance from river rock, on a bank left dry
through summer, though the rise after autumn rain
will drown them. Ice will crack their chests.
But for miles of pine and wind I've heard no voice
to liven the quiet so go down in the evening shade
to touch the stones some other has touched,
to set a tumbled few back upright and nod
a private word of solace to each, water-
smooth and day-warm, welcome to the hand.