Roll on, ye stones!

Clackamas River

Jeanine and I went hiking today right along the river that skirts the Old Man's southwest flank.  Clackamas River, as we call it.  It was a gray, muggy day, up there in the foothills.  We hiked upriver a spell and then stopped at a stony beach to munch our sandwiches.

I became enamored with the murmur of the river at her chore.  She was rolling the round stones down the mountain.

The stones on the beach were at a resting point in their enduring journey. They sat, serene as monks, awaiting the next springtime push.  Ferruginous, turquoise, and amber veins recalled the subterranean home to which they hope to return someday.

They dream of home at the end of the pilgrimage.

Home.

Not today, nor tomorrow, nor in a thousand generations of men.  But in time... in time.

Stones would play inside her head
And where she slept,
They made her bed
And she would ache for love
And get but stones
La la la la la la la la la la la

Lordy, child
A good day's comin'
And I'll be there to let the sun in
And bein' lost
Is worth the comin' home
La la la la la la la la la on stones

You and me, a time for planting
You and me, a harvest granting
The every prayer ever prayed
For just two wild flowers that grow

La la la la la la la la la on stones