Click below to listen to the narration:
from the salt‑bitten coves where the packet bird sings...and gander keeps watch on the runway’s gleam...the stones roll in from the storm‑torn coast...each one etched by a fisherman’s dream...they’ve heard the gulls cry over broken wharves...felt the boots of volunteers in the rain...and they settle in stacks on the headland cliffs...balanced by hands that remember the strain...across the marsh where the fundy breathes...and amherst leans on its rail‑line spine...the stones come trudging through border fog...carrying tales of cattle and twine...they’ve heard the council’s long debates...seen barns rebuilt after lightning’s blow...and they rest on the ridge like quiet jurors...holding the weight of what small towns know...where the lakes lie still as a held‑back breath...and westport’s mirror catches sky...the stones arrive from cottage roads...dust‑soft...patient...and shy...they’ve listened to septic crews at dawn...to elders mourning the bank branch gone...and they balance on shorelines like old musicians...humming the tune of a township drawn...then out on the plains where the wheat‑wind runs...and brandon’s presses beat like hooves...the stones roll west with a farmer’s gait...shaped by the rail‑line’s iron grooves...they’ve felt the tremor of curling cheers...heard newcomers’ stories in grocery aisles...and they stack in fields like weathered prophets...reading the sky for a thousand miles...where salmon climb the mountain streams...and smithers wakes to cedar smoke...the stones descend from glacier paths...each one carved by a river’s stroke...they’ve heard the wet’suwet’en drums at dusk...seen mills fall silent in shifting times...and they balance on moss like quiet witnesses...holding the echo of contested lines...under the yukon’s long blue dusk...where winter speaks in a silver tongue...the stones drift down from permafrost hills...ancient...slow...and young...they’ve watched self‑government rise like dawn...heard mining trucks in the valley hum...and they stand at rest on the tundra’s edge...marking the path of the travellers to come...and when the stones meet as a single form...east and west and north entwined...they balance not by weight alone...but by the stories they have aligned...storms...rails...lakes...wheat...salmon...frost...each stone weathered by what it bore...the aggregate balance becomes a quiet country...built with the stories from every place...within...