turning rocks

not a thought for anything more than the next step with the music playing. only sprint or try to pick up the pace when sharing the path: the run only matters with someone there to watch me move and maybe overtake. if a tree falls and nobody is there to see etc. I pass the creek on the track between showers. the stream moves slow and nervous, if at all. there are reflections and thoughts to draw from turning rocks. I run through the urge to stop without even taking a picture. the people are watching and I’m making good time. I wish I’d listened to the stones and wonder what they might have said.

days will fall into weeks and soften memory’s edge to sounds more vague and less harsh on the heart. when the sun sets and the clouds roll in nothing is much more than time spent and space filled for a moment. I see you on my phone and in my dreams and monuments are made of nothing more than this: a disordered assortment of moments that have come to pass. they’re always building statues somewhere.