Leaving the house far behind,
while his friends, two lovers, quarreled,
he studied the ground at his feet to find
a proffered world.
Where a stream had worn a limestone trough
he washed off
a rock he had unearthed,
then dried it on his pants.
It was etched with prehistoric plants
whose stems looked like the broken legs of birds
set in stone. He wanted to see if
when he showed his friends
they’d notice that, though of no real consequence
lying there in bas relief,
these living things had turned to rock
long before their own centuries of human talk.

At the screen door he stopped,
hearing just the distant cough of thunder.
They had done all the talking
they were going to do. The house was quiet.
But in a fit of love or in a fight,
he chose to wonder,
not going in but walking
toward the car. A lesson
now without a reason
might as well remain unlearned. There he dropped
the fossil in the grass,
content to wait out the coming shower
and reconciliation, where, before the storm would pass,
he knew (a man with too few words),
the rain on the car’s canvas roof would shudder
like the pecking of a hundred birds.