The linked procession Whoas to stop. We get out the heavy chain, the dented shovels. The tractor revs and grinds, the chain snaps taut, tightens its bite as we work in the crowbars to lever it, like we mean business, and we heave to get this boulder up from God knows where. And here it is, big as some stone mastodon, black-backed and wet like skin and wanting to be free, rolled to the creek and walked on, to feel the slap of kids' feet and the water lap, the warm sun, the dry, brittle wicker of a picnic basket, the spread of a napkin, the keening of stars. Some ambitious stone, this, but we can't move it.
Darkness fills the field like ore.
Not this year. Plant around it.