HIKING GOLDEN BROWN HILLS, sun dazzling, dry breeze hot I kneel before a great flat stone and, struck from behind I am surprised to find my heart on that stone, rhythmically Pulsing, wet, alive, dislocated, ugly It should be sterile, that heart, but it gathers chaff And grains of sand, wind blown, and tiny pebbles from The rock on which it beats. Its sticky wetness defies The dehydrating air, the desiccating sun, the drying dirt I pick it up, hurl it toward a sea that lies beyond The horizon. Borne aloft, it is a miracle that it plashes Out beyond the turbid, crashing waves and half sinks Half floats in the moist milieu, shedding sand and sticks Beating still, wet still, living still
— Ron – 16 Aug 2008