The leaves are playing tag in the wind.
The fallen ones are not sleeping yet.
They chase each other in the gusts.
The trees are waving all their hands.
The flowers and weeds lean low to the ground.
The rocks are sturdy and keep their place.
The creek runs as a busy highway.
The sun is shadowed by large clouds.
Those clouds hang low and move fast.
The world is changing everywhere.
The rock stands still and observes.
He sees a baby turn to a boy.
Who runs with friends about.
Who then turns to a man.
With a wife to call his own.
The trees have all grown and died.
The plot eroded and washed.
The creek dried up and crispy.
Sky scrapers take place of weeds.
The rock has stayed put.
It takes a long time for one to be as the rock.
The rock knows of only one to ever come close.
In a moment in time they stood eye to eye.
The rock remembers every detail of his life,
of how the old man used to run in young days.
The rock who cant find manY friends in this fast world,
stands over the place of the closest he got to one lies.
Etched in memory from birth to death,
lies this rock near a tree with leaves that dance,
in a field smaller now than then,
over looking the ever expanding world.
The rock will never move its place,
therefor his friend will never be forgotten.