Little stones, how old you are not even earth knows. Infant soil where you lie unbedded must wonder about you. You have no history; history itself is young, so young it never heard of you. What right have I to pick one of your number, take it home, remark on glint and glisten, set it proudly over my flickering hearth? It is you should gather me, transient, hither to thither without hail or by-your-leave. You tell me out of your infinite silence I am swirl of mist, puff of vapor unclassified, intruder for a moment on the wind. I feel my self-assessments wither in the making as I stand sensing what existence is. I number my few masteries beset by rounds of follies, and I think it is you who will endure.