Under a rock
that I leant against
in the summer of dust
was an earthen spirit
held captive by a road
excavation, recognizable
by the coolness
of the boulder’s surface,
even in midday heat.
It waited in the long days
that bleached a valley,
a velvet shadow
sent casual nightgowns
in fading perpetual night,
black waters echoed
if it listened deep within
to something cavernous
below, yet it didn’t want that,
not the depths,
not the dark again;
it needed the weight
from its shoulders.
I heard recently
the stone moved an inch
by its own accord,
toppled down the incline
and killed a building inspector.
“Seems there’s always a sacrifice
somewhere along the line”,
an Indian brave related,
a newly created dead end
on the path below.
