There’s a stone
not far from here
balanced on another stone
in a field that’s been used 
for cow pasture
on a dairy farm for 
seven generations.
The stone has been there
since the last glacier
retreated and left it perched there
dozens of generations before that.

When I was a boy
I’d sneak up into that pasture
when I thought no one was looking
and try to push that rock over
though it hasn’t budged, ever.
It’s still there. I’m still here.
The cows are still there grazing
around the rocks. There are
other stones in that pasture too
but there’s only one
I could draw for you
from memory if I could draw.

That memory is dozens of generations old.
Here is the proof, right here
on this paper. I didn’t bother
with the temporary cows,
the minor stones, the grass.
You could go there now
and find it right away by sight
just using this sketch, I swear —

and once there you would talk (as you do now)
of developing the pasture
and the land around that pasture
for luxury homes and lovely roads 
as if moving the standing stone
was no more that a bulldozer’s illusion of right use
and all the whispers of the kids who’ve put 
a shoulder to it without moving it 
hadn’t left it unmoved
for dozens of generations — 
as if your desire and greed could touch it
when they couldn’t;
as if the land doesn’t know already
that you are nothing,
really,
not when you have to look
across all those years to see you.
Ask any of the Natives standing behind you.
The stone will be there even if you move it.