The Rocks Cry Wednesday, July 23, 2025

I’ve heard rocks are soft until you touch them.

This is clearly unverifiable but I have heard them scream.

Not for apocalypse, not for the sun’s shine nor the moon’s dark but for the nothing we attribute to them.

A rock screaming is visceral.

They are griots in their sediments and their screams are the conglomerous cacophony of all they have witnessed with their perfect lack of vision and crisp deafness.

The rocks do not cry for apocalypse but do scream when cracked.

An onomatopoeic shattering is often all they can muster.

A few years ago, I missed my throw when rock skipping. My poor, poor rock, was shattered against the ground, another rock, another griot.

And with no sympathy or empathy, I looked away. I shielded my eyes.

A millennia witnessing al which can and cannot be seen, shattered in an instant by something that been alive for only the blink of a rock’s eye.

Upon reflection my rock does not cry for apocalypse.

Upon reflection, I feel as though I must.