The Patience of Stone

Beneath the restless sprawl of roots where frost has carved its silver veins, the granite holds its silent breath. It does not rush the winter's thaw nor beg the rain to wash its face.

Centuries are merely shadows passing like brief wings across the moss. The mountain’s bones remember fire and the slow, grinding weight of ice that shaped the valley far below.

No haste infects the ancient rock. It sits in quiet, heavy grace, a monument to steady time, while empires rise and crumble fast like scattered dust upon the wind.