Cold Stream

       

                Boulders sit
               in minute erosion,
                knowing and unknowing,
                there like the sun
                without morality
                but dictating behavior anyway,
                season after season.

                Briefly my moss intellect
                hovers about these big rocks,
                earnest with a
                green hued nobility,
                a quaint perception by my
                eye brain
                that thought it mattered
                what I thought.

                Different, but of the same world
                these river boulders.
                At best,
                we go wading out,
                to sit on a big rock,
                to think about not thinking.