Life on the Edge

What is it about stones? Charles Simic tries an answer with this poem: "Go inside a stone That would be my way Let somebody else become a dove Or gnash with a tiger's tooth. I am happy to be a stone. From the outside the stone is a riddle: No one knows how to answer it Yet within, it must be cool and quiet Even though a cow steps on it full weight, Even though a child throws it in a river; The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed To the river bottom Where the fishes come to knock on it And listen. I have seen sparks fly out When two stones are rubbed, So perhaps it is not dark inside after all; Perhaps there is a moon shining From somewhere, as though behind a hill -- Just enough light to make out The strange writings, the star-charts On the inner walls." The stone I am holding in my hand is definitely a beach stone; all shapely rounded by who knows how many hundreds of years of wave action. But it was far from the beach when I came upon it. On Tuesday morning, in light mist, while walking around an area of land just off the Peace Path, an area of land I have never walked on before, there it lay half buried, glinting and shining like some polished jewel; like some dark moon shining. The only way it could have gotten there was for an aboriginal man or woman to have carried it there; possibly even a child. The riddle I ask myself is: "When was the last time this stone was picked up and held?" I close my eyes and allow myself to see a black hand cupping this stone. When it was put down, could the holder foresee the tragedy about to fall?