Rocks are not alive; probably this is true.

But life surrounds them on a living planet,
covers them, colors them, ever so slowly digests them.

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Even the crystals, all edges, vertices, flat faces.
What gives quartz its accuracy as a time keeper?
Not patience alone.

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Like some people, some rocks
you’ve got to scrape hard or crack apart to find what’s inside.

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The tree has been working here forty or fifty years.

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But what exactly is the exchange between these roots and these rocks?

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Surrounded since the beginning of the tree, or did they find a way to insinuate themselves?
Were they helped? By some necessarily quite short entity sharing the space inside?

Y’all stay with us, now.