Bar Island. The sun bakes while the breeze blow-dries the moisture left behind by the receding waters. There is no sure footing atop stones of all sizes mostly rounded and polished from years of natural tumbling by the tides coming in and going out. With each step they shift beneath my feet; I have no way of knowing just how deep the giant pebbles are piled. The clanking reminds me of a favorite film: Men With Brooms. More specifically, the sport of Curling and the sounds forty-two pound granite stones make when they connect with or ricochet off one another after gliding across a nearly hundred and fifty foot sheet of ice. 
Saturday, September 4, 2010
The Crackle Pop of Rocks
Bar Island. The sun bakes while the breeze blow-dries the moisture left behind by the receding waters. There is no sure footing atop stones of all sizes mostly rounded and polished from years of natural tumbling by the tides coming in and going out. With each step they shift beneath my feet; I have no way of knowing just how deep the giant pebbles are piled. The clanking reminds me of a favorite film: Men With Brooms. More specifically, the sport of Curling and the sounds forty-two pound granite stones make when they connect with or ricochet off one another after gliding across a nearly hundred and fifty foot sheet of ice. 
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment