Road Grit

Every sharp pebble, a pointed shadow

on the sunlit board where it fell,

on a winter’s day, from a jogger’s shoe,

sun coming sideways to make it grand.

What do you suppose they think—

these little pieces of road grit?

They are mountains!--

rising majestically from the plains

of grey-green, pressure-treated wood,

empty of anything but themselves,

living as long as memory has,

and likely will stand forever, too,

a great, ragged range of cataclysm

to endure as long as the world,

or until a breeze, or a woman’s broom.