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By John I. Blair

Pebbles from an empty vase
Rinsed and drying on a towel.

Reminding me of other pebbles,
Sugar-candy imitation stones,
Souvenirs of Estes Park,
Gleaming from a bowl beside my bed
In a rustic cabin near a stream.

A stream so close I fell asleep
Lulled by ripples over rocks,
Waking to mountain breezes
And camp jays crying
In a grove of ponderosas,
Big Thompson Canyon, 1959.

Seventeen years later, I read,
Flash floods scoured that canyon,
A hell of churning boulders, people, trees,
Leaving just the pebbles and the dead
For the jays to cry over.

What memories can dwell
In a simple pile of pebbles.

2004 John I. Blair  

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