Dec
29th
Thu
29th
The river grinds away, through all seasons, furiously in the spring, high in its bed, in a deep-throated roar, quietly in the winter, sometimes so quietly that you must silence all thought to hear it. Each time the water passes over each stone, it makes a tiny noise. These lapping and tinkling sounds, conjoined with thousands of others, are the announcement of the first infinitesimal steps by which rock is converted to soil, upon which all embodiment will feed: life begins in a kind of music.
— Stanley Crawford, “A History of Flat Stones,” DoubleTake 2 (Fall 1995).
