The trouble with rocks is they have a tendency to follow you home. If you’re not careful, your living room becomes encrusted with quartz, the kitchen counter lined with granite. I keep telling myself, look but don’t touch.
Of course I don't listen to myself.
Yesterday I found a handsome green rock in the bottom of the near arroyo. I suppose it’s some form of granite, with red iron splotches.
I don’t know what the white streak is.
I probably won’t ask at that rock store. The last time I went, the young salesperson looked down at my rock from Dixon, and declared that’s just a rock. Now a mineral, he wanted me to understand, has specific characteristics.
Characteristics I repeated to myself, not character.
At least, before he dematerialized, he did deign to tell me the rock from the Dixon area wasn’t shale. Maybe granite. He couldn’t say. But definitely not shale. Just a rock.
Rocks are impervious to the wisdom of the young.
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