A stone sleeps a long time. Under butternut shade her toes work the cobble streambed, and one of us says, A stone sleeps a long time.

Before I knew her house I believed in all its lonely hours.

Stones everywhere. Riverclean, their stories polished. Dozens, maybe hundreds. On window sills and side tables, mantles and corners. Cairns in a chapel.

But walls like Shakers. A house that wants no history.