Days come, go, without effort, no surprises. The stones soak in the light and memory. One makes a stone a pillow. Another puts a stone on his clothes before swimming to keep them from being blown away by the wind. Another uses a stone as his stool or to mark something in his field, in the cemetery, in the wall, in the woods.
Later, after sunset, when you return home, any pebble from the beach you place on your table is a statuette- a small Nike or Artemis’s dog, and this one, on which a young man stood with wet feet at noon, is a Patroklus with shady shut eyelashes