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| The Talking Stones by � kanee Gentle, buoyant waves lap over the brown rugged surface of the stone slab, casting a soft feminine contrast to it�s masculine solidity. It seems to be floating in the water in spite of it�s massive weight and the fact that it sits solidly on the bottom of the lake. The stone provides part of the shoreline that contains the water and the water compliments the stone by constantly changing it�s form, revealing stories long hidden within while scribing and creating new ones with each wave that pass over it. The stone is Mother Earth�s scrapbook where she stores her memories, pictures and stories for us to enjoy hundreds or thousands of years after they were written. This stone is no different. Covered by hundreds of fossils created by tiny marine life, this stone reads like an ancient scroll beginning millenniums ago when this part of the country was covered by the ocean. The ocean receded and the land eventually became covered with plant life. Land creatures soon appeared and eventually fresh-water lakes were formed where they came for drink and nourishment. Cranes stood as still as sticks and waited for fish. Raccoons picked fresh water muscles out of the water and cracked them open on the rocks to get at the prize inside. A small snake is dropped by a hawk, landing, dying, on the hot rocks below. Trees and plants spring up, thrive and renew themselves with new plants and growth. The first people also make their way there to drink and to fish. Men chisel small chunks from the edge to be shaped into tools or weapons. Women grind grain on the surface of the hard rock. Soul mates sit there, campfires are built there and eventually a woman came there to read and listen to the stories told by the talking stones. She can touch the outline of a leaf that fell thousands of years ago and see the detail imprinted there. She can see the raccoon in her mind, sitting there enjoying it�s meal when she notices the partial imprint of the shell it left there in the stone. The faint silhouette of a snake is there, curled up, and the imprint of every bone along it�s back is visible, like a photo negative. The edges have been chiseled by people and worn smooth by time. Portions of the stone have been worn down hollow and smooth by the constant grinding of grain. Soul mates have carved their initials there and the surface has been charred by old campfires. Tiny plants grow in the crevices and soften the edges with delicate yellow wild flowers, eventually contributing to the shape and surface of the stone. Every time the wind blows, the rain falls or the sun shines, new stories are slowly scribed, adding more pictures and another story to the ancient scrolls of the talking stones. |
