You see the chairs out there in the field?
And the two big stones -- see them
looping the light across the valley?
The stones are so smooth they could have rolled
in the ocean for centuries.
This valley used to be an ocean floor.
I like to sit on the big stones,
roll my hands over them,
and pretend my words, when I speak,
go out across the valley. I sit and think about
what I am going to say.
I find I don't have much to say.
You'd think that would get me down. It doesn't.
I remember when I had lots to say.
That felt good.
But that was about wanting someone to listen.

A stream passes in front of me
on ground so flat the steam makes no noise.
It helps me think.
It helps me not think, too.
I like to imagine the stream far away,
coming miles across the valley,
down from the mountains, snowcapped year round,
mountains I can see only now and then,
as if, in light, they come down into the valley
and then, during the night,
pull away again.
I would like to move like the mountains
and like the stream , too.
Even in mist, the stream has a glint to it.
I wish I had a friend to talk with about this,
even if we didn't talk.