When I was a kid growing up in WV, I saw lots of rocks. They were everywhere. I stubbed my toes and bruised my feet on them running barefoot in the summer. I climbed on them and played King of the Mountain. I dug them out of the garden, every single year. I stacked rocks, followed rock fences, skipped rocks, and gashed my knee on a rock one summer at camp.
But now, living in a different time and place, I rarely see rocks. They don't seem to be as plentiful as they once were. In fact, I have to intentionally look for them.
But once my eyes adjust to the new lighting, the new terrain, suddenly I start noticing rocks where I never noticed them before. Some rocks are out in the open for anyone to plainly see, while others are hanging out on the side of the path instead of under foot.
Sadly, some of the rocks are tangled in roots unable to be released, while some just barely show through the leaves and debris of the surrounding forest.
The rocks are still there, holding the earth together as best they can. They are strong, they are tough, but they are disappearing. Finding a rock still sticking out of the soil, I rejoice.
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