What the Stone Remembers

Morning light finds the creek again, carved by ten thousand mornings, each one insisting: *here*, not there.

The water has no memory but the stone does— worn smooth by the weight of forgetting, by the patient erosion of let it go.

We are like this too, returning to the same valley of worry, of longing, until our edges round, until the sharp edges become a place where light can rest.

The creek doesn't ask permission to reshape itself. It simply flows where the earth has already learned to surrender.