Epektasis

The stone is scored—
not scarred—
I say that quickly,
as if naming steadiness could keep it still.

Feldspar, mica—
a staff, I thought,
where pressure leaned
until something gave.
Pressure repeats.

Basalt held something once—
low—
cooling did not still it,
it locked it in.
“Long notes” is my word,
not the stone’s.

Granite answers higher—
quartz brightening,
orthoclase chiming—
names stacked like chords,
precision as shelter.
Brightness is what light does later.

This land was not lifted—
it was folded—
everyone says that,
as if saying it together makes it gentle.
Worked inward.
Held past mercy.

Heat changed the pitch.
Burial deepened it.

Time conducts without a hand.
Weight decides.
The measure does not close.

A seam opens—
I call it modulation—
but stress does not accept my terms.
Release is loud
or it is nothing.

Gneiss remembers this—
banded—
not by design,
but by repetition
set hard.
Each mineral fixed in place.

The light arrives late.
North.
Sparing.
It skims the face of stone,
catches only what fracture allows—
and I am one.

Nothing here asks for witness.
Still, I listen.
I mark the margin,
call it music
because silence this old
leans back.

We pass—
weather, footstep, drill—
calling the tempo harsh,
calling ourselves small.
Small things leave marks.

The stone holds pressure.
The page turns.