How many gallons have washed over these stones?
How many sunrises have thrown their pastel light off the water's surface?
How many years have these lichens seen?
How many coming-and-going animals have nicked their blooming texture?
How many generations of trees have filtered the light that washes down from over the mountain?
And when was it that this violet boulder, this lichen home, tumbled down off of the mountain, through the trees, and into this place?
How many moths have arced over the trees and mountains,
kissing over the river's surface, flung and flitting on the wind?
How many have died here?
Just out of reach of river and light, damp wings narrowly missed by the dappled sun's heat?
A proclamation: this is her spot, and hers alone. As found; as left.
Midway between rock pool and torrent: exactly where her wings—surely colluding with the wind—set her leaf-light body down for the last time.
