I sat on one of many boulders that felt as out of place as I did. Creating a squiggle to which I see no end. Intertwined and constructed by the current with other boulders, that all have their own reason to be where they were. Walking down the stream of rocks, occasional puddles of history seep in through here and there. Moss found a home in the crevices of what once was a possible mountain, or a hill, or dirt; but now is neither, yet both. Sitting down on a similar, yet different, yet the same boulder, my hands brushed through its rough texture of what was from underneath. Slanted over, by the previous stream, currently grow in whichever way nature allows. I'm not part of this. I'm as much a stranger to my surrounding as the boulders when they were originally brought over. I get up on high ground, over where I was just sitting. Nature is a devious thing. there is no pattern in it except for the interchangeable, immortal beauty. Unique to each environment that was once bare. I am engulfed in my surroundings, while all I could do was watch. I am nothing but a story teller of my eyes that serve nature. In this valley, nature is at home. I am nothing but a visitor.