by Andrea Elizabeth
These days I’m appreciating rocks more than trees. I think I got enough of trees in Maine and Canada. There there are endless walls of monotonous, repetitive trees that keep going and going, on and on and on and on forever without a break or reprieve for miles and miles and miles without stopping. Like a corridor with mirrors on the ends. Like a huge box of toothpicks spilled on a wood floor of a toothpick factory where all the boxes malfunctioned. Like if all the stars turned to trees and encircled you at close range and followed you around so that you were always in the middle of them.
Rocks are not so. Unless you’re talking about pebbles. But pebbles are by water and with larger and more varied rocks around them. Rocks are not opportunist like trees are. Tree seeds most likely came from somewhere else and moved there within the last 100 years or so. Ancient trees longer ago, but they have big trunks, but short arms and hardly any leaves. Rocks have been there since the earth was in the early stages of being formed. Before plants. Rocks are the only things that are truly local. They are what makes a place local. Their individual strata and composition define only that particular spot where only those particular weather and water things happened. Unless they were moved there by a great big flood or much manual labor. Then they are foreign visitors of great importance who should be treated with respect for their ancient wonderfulness.