Dad picked stones for years.
He built two hill peaks with them.
But they kept coming back to visit.
Who pushed them from below?

They moved from beneath the soil
as if they had life or motion
of their own,
or had a roadmap to travel at night.
Maybe the darn things are alive!
Created by mistake or chance or
by design to make a farmer
draw a sweat.

But they know enough to lay still
when a man pokes in the dirt.
Could they run, play and frolic in
the dark of night,
always returning exactly to where
they were in
the day?

Just at the crack of dawn, they’re
back in place, soaking the
sun and anxious for the moonlight
again so they can go and play . . .