Nature in all its many facets is astounding. In Spring I revel at all the new flowers and plants that bloom, I sit mesmerized while watching honey bees and other insects going about their busy lives with no thought for us whatsoever, I am fascinated by watching migratory birds return year after year to nests that only they know how to find, and I even harbor great affection for the rocks. Perhaps the quietest members of my garden, there are many rocks that line my flower beds and get moved slightly from place to place as I weed around them throughout the year. I like the feel of them, their heft, their rough edges and sharp angles. They are the oldest things here - limestone, granite, sandstone, quartz, geodes- they speak of a time that I will never know. A time of heat and turmoil. Pressure and seemingly infinite spans of time. There are small trilobites that I find embedded in the limestone rocks, whole generations of a species that, at one point, thought they were the height of civilization as we do now.
For whatever reason, I have a fascination with standing rocks up - a change of perspective for them, I imagine. When I find a small pile of them lying around, even though they may have odd angles, I take on the inherent challenge of balancing one upon the other. It takes a little time and patience to get them to all work together, and not enough can be said to praise a small amount of sand that helps create the all important friction that holds the odd-angled rock in place, but when they are all in harmony and supporting one another, they almost seem enlivened somehow. Even a rock wants to be something - whether it be a quiet meditative being lying in the midst of a field, a part of a building's foundation , or a member of a cairn. Perhaps that is being overly anthropomorphic, but then I try to imagine what the animal world looks like to a stone - we all must be in high speed motion to them, flitting from place to place, growing, aging, dying within a blink of a rock's eye. How ridiculous must the work-a-day world seem to a rock. 
Sometimes they fall. Gravity, rain and wind work their change on the rocks just as they have for millions of years and I will come across the dismantled pile looking like so many pieces of puzzle and stoop to rebuild them again as I take a break from the endless pulling of weeds. No two piles are ever the same, but then it is fun to hear people's remarks that have seen a group of stones together and then realize that they are subtly different, as though by magic they have shifted themselves. Sometimes, I think they do.
