Liquid Linguistics

Every few months I shift the stones around in the brook behind my house. You shift the stones and you shift the sound made by the water as it rushes by. Each stone has a unique shape; when you turn it or move it, a new sound is created. The stones are the brook's tongue. Shifting them is like teaching the brook a new language.

Sometimes I like to make the brook-washed stones speak softly, and in the calm, blue-tinted evening I'll sit by the shore and listen to the water expound on its pilgrimage all the long way to the ocean. Sometimes I'll pile the stones so the water roils violently and trumpets its strength, reminding me it will be here long after I'm gone and that even the stones will eventually succumb to it. Sometimes I'll arrange the stones so the water slides by in a musical murmur, a gentle and friendly nanny's burble that lulls me to nap in the hammock.

I tell myself the water likes it when I shift the stones. I tell myself the water takes pleasure in the change, that it enjoys wrapping itself around the stones in new ways.

Only the crayfish object.

posted by greg @ 5:49 PM