Tuesday we pack up and leave the River of Stones behind. I wish I had written down the stones I saw every day like the song of House Finches I heard on a sunny day or the white fur on the back of squirrels' ears I saw up close today. I though I could just commit small stones to memory but that notion has me treading on thin ice. Oh, and what about that bright red fish house on the lake? Or the photo of little Dr. Erica on her second Christmas morning that surfaced in the desk piles where she's in red from head to toe? Red in winter, a motif, as well as white on the ground and a pale blue wrapped around my heart like a scarf because another season is half over. Melancholies see small stones everywhere, every day, but sometimes the stones are so incredibly lovely that they defy words.