In a Year It Hasn’t Shifted

Can’t you love the absurd old age
Of the not really aging rocks?
You set yourself to simply watch,

For no good reason, crumbling blocks,
Knowing your hovering focus,
Lasting less than a mayfly’s life,

Won’t likely catch any crumbling
In the time you hold attention,
But by that earn the sensation

Of how ancient these stones must be,
Motion still in motion, while slow
Enough to appear motionless.

Here’s a single basalt boulder,
Cooled, cracked, tumbled and eroded,
Still on its way down the canyon.