Rolled stones

A flood in the desert Captured us on the wrong side Of something. The petroglyphs Were red hands in the cave above Where we ate, tried to wait Out the rain. Instead A stream became churning river. He said he could smell The stones rolled In the mountains Coming to us, Smoother and smoother, Round and plenteous. The air held wet and true. We sang the cold time away, Eager to ford and return. We crossed before It was really safe, Having forgotten much.

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