When I was nineteen,
at the foot of the Black Hills in South Dakota
I moved a rock in a tiny stream to improve its flow.
Rocks led to pebbles, shards of green glass, and rusty tins.
In the hot sun,
my back ached,
my fingers became raw,
and I consumed the hours with the satisfaction of a light, but hearty meal.


Thirty years later, I see streams and think,
`A stone here or there . . .'
but, refuse to play where stones cannot be moved.


						Brandywine
						5/23/95