The Sound of Stones

The sound of stones in a running brook shape the trees as they dream of flight.

The near-silence is imperceptible except to those who listen for the murmuring of the flower and the fledging of the leaf, and for the lament of the enflamed and the fallen when the symphony ends.

And when they wake, all that is left them, radiating hope, is the sound of the tympani at their roots, and the pounding heart of thunder and fire beneath their feet.

The drumming of the forgotten beneath us all who are shaped by the sound of stones in sleep.