I’m outside early this morning, photographing the foggy day (if you can call it photography when all I’m doing is snapping pics with my iPhone) and I see the rock, moved.
It makes me happy.
It’s a rock that is meant to be part of my flowerbed border. I hauled these rocks here from the back pasture years ago, wagon-full after wagon-full, and trimmed the beds to tidy and contain these flower spaces.
But what I really did was create bug homes, and for years I’ve been putting tipped rocks back where they belong.
Grumble, grumble. Why can’t these boys leave my rocks alone? … as I brush tumbled dirt off the sidewalk.
Because under these rocks are the best hiding places for ants and crickets and centipedes, and mine are the sorts of boys who could spend hours tipping rocks to watch the scurrying.
I haven’t seen many out-of-place rocks this year. The odd one here and there, and I was never sure whether the credit should go to mine or the visiting friends’ younger children.
But this morning, in the fog of early day, I know it’s his.
He still rocks.