"Clarice scrawled, 'A question from when I was a little girl that I can answer only now: are rocks made, or are they born? Answer: rocks are."
Benjamin Moser, Why this World: A Biography of Clarice Lispector
Spokane lies in the path of an ancient flood plain. Most rocks in the river are ovid gray stones, worn smooth by centuries of water tumbling them around and about. I love it when I come across rocks that are different from all the rest. Pushed here by the forces of ice and water they tell tales of faraway places.
|Green and black, hiding in a place where fairies must live.|
|A loaf of bread! It looks like you should be able to slice into it. So much so that I had to poke at it to make sure it was a rock.|
|Swirls and eddies, a liquid as a solid.|