Hard.
Cold.
Soft edges.
Two rocks.
Pale blue sky.
Small rock between.
A hole.
Soft breeze.
A hum?
Edges harden slightly.
Go. Harder. I listen.
Obligingly, the wind picks up.
A hum grows to a whine grows to a tuneless whistle.
The soft edges of his blurred vision, his scattered thoughts, come to focus.
He hears the song within the sharp wail of the wind through the unassuming stone.
Sing to me your secrets, wind. Let the stone speak for you.
