Sometimes when the sky is orange pink red and there I am my body just sitting on a stump watching, sometimes then I can feel all the way down my legs connected. To something greater, one likes to say. To lava and ancient stone at the very least. Deep inside this good earth. A stillness I can only imagine but really can I? Think, I think to myself, two hundred seventy seven feet below my feet, say, I’m sitting here watching the sunset, right, but think down two hundred seventy seven feet, I tell myself. So I close my eyes even though that orange stripe right there, even though those godrays all shooting out behind that cloud there. I close my eyes and sink down down down. Stop like an elevator. Pressed quiet in solid stone, how quiet can I be? Down like this I want to hush myself enough for her secrets for the thrum there deep away from all the surface clatter. There I am in the stone my own blood of course rushing in my ears my own heart beating my mind a mouse racing round and round my hands stuck solid but trying anyway to reach for my smart phone and look up, say, earth cross-section, and make sure I’m not in molten rock or something. My own heart beating some more, all these ideas I think I have. In five or eleven years maybe I could calm the hell down enough to hear just this rock around me. I mean studies have shown. My pulse would slow, no? And the mind therewith. I would hear eventually the whisper, the inner life of the very earth herself. Mineral would spin for me like Grandma’s do the story of her own beginning, how she chose this neighborhood, the liquid days and the gradual cooling. The eventual, if she even thinks this way, appearance of, say, fish on her cooled and blooming surface. Oh, how leaves came to be! When I’ve quieted she would tell me, oh, the stories she would tell about the sun. His wild youth. His temper, and of course, through it all, his abiding love. I would be, by then, accustomed to the press of stone, the muscles of my arms contented like long-sleeping children, attuned at long last to the subtle warmth of the place, two hundred seventy seven feet down. Her heartbeat and mine, same same. And then one day, the Mother of all us monkeys would say, up with you! The sun is setting. Go see the pelicans, for chrissakes. And there I am again on my stump, little eyes open.