Click below to listen to the narration:
gathered not by chance...but by story...these stones speak where words once lay...a knoll of green and grey...a choir of crows...a sky stained like cathedral glass...where only one child dreams...the stones were placed with care by cosmic hand...stilled but aware...crows grip the edges of our silence...while squirrels dance between shadows...the aggregate does not fall...everything moves around it...like jazz brushed onto memory...there...in the glass stained clouds...the child floats...swaddled in sapphire breath and cotton-light longing...her presence bends the hawks' flight...she is unburdened by gravity...or news...somewhere south...heat breaks the horizon…somewhere near…politics rust and rise...here...our knoll remains...no vote...no banners...just waiting...but we hear the world...in the rustle of grass...in distant sirens carried like fog...each stone remembers...the voice of treaties...the scream of storms...the soft apology of seasons...we do not forgive...we do not condemn...we simply remain...she sleeps above the aggregate still...in a cradle of cloud-light glass...the stones gather beneath...quiet and raw...crows cry jazz...squirrels tap out rhythm on the rocks...the stones hum as one…the aggregate’s spoken song...carried in the wind...