The Creator hewed this granite and then scattered it about through a glacial freshet. Centuries later, man found it necessary to stack these obstacles into orderly hedges.
Unearthed by horse-drawn cast iron, tilled by progress to the surface. Laboriously handled and ideally placed once and for all time.
Shaped into boundaries, its integrity only interrupted by a stubborn sapling or man’s intervention.
Stoic sentinels marking place and time, asking for nothing, all while managing long-ago livestock securely placed within their borders.
Its moss-covered northern exposure offers protection, as the four seasons bring mana from heaven. Small creatures are abundant, nestled within a maze of an interior.
Stewards of man’s covenant with order, it’s once a temporary duty, but a chore that is long forgotten. Holder of distant memories of all who once traveled by.
Dust-laden and snow-blown, these vigilant stones will remain the muted historians for the Most High long after man has departed.
If these stones could talk, what would they report as coveted or transformative? What secrets would they expose, or would they simply ask to be returned to where they were once found?
