The Weight of a Stone

I walked along the trail today with Mercy.  The sky was sweet and pale, and hawks were overhead.  Cat tails were bent and broken, their bulky tails bloated and puffy, finished for the season.  The mild temperature contradicted the aftermath of broken trees and sticks and spilled leaves, leftovers of a harsh and heavy fall.  Mercy was in her own world, sniffing every single little thing, happy, eager, silly.  Oblivious and reliable.

As we wandered down the road, my eyes fixed on their usual spot on the verge. I'm taken by the helter-skelter nature of things I find there.  Weeds, wild flowers, rocks, clumps of mud and dirt, a wrapper, a bicycle reflector, a piece of an old yard sale sign, puddles, leaves, a worn glove, logs, and stones--all atop an undeterred road.  The occupation of chaos. I was drawn to the many stones along the way and just one I dropped in my pocket, a token of this day.  I felt the solid weight of reassurance as I mulled it over in my fingers.  For me, it offered proof of simple joys and discoveries.

Tomorrow begins a new week, undeterred by uncertainty or anticipation.  Winter is close by and will soon cover us in a blanket of snow, burying the fall, covering our wounds, and wrapping us in the certainty of its weight.   I look forward to the coming days and this change of seasons. With your stone in my pocket, I am reminded it's worth its wait.