Cloudbusting, baby!

We are on our knees. We are saying that the tulips have had it hard this week. We are saying something about the brightness & the dryness & we are saying we hope it will change. I press a finger into the loam, flick the dust on my jeans. We are listening to the snip of shears. I pick up a smooth, small disc of pink Sioux quartz, hold it like an avian heart in the palm. A disc slipped & beating from a time when all of North America was under sea. My finger walks the buttery vein that parses the stone in two & then in four. Its edges are under siege; its end at the foot of suburban perennials. Do you have stones, someone is asking me. Where you are from, do you have stones, like these. We have purple sunbirds, I am saying, & their hearts have four rooms, one for every answer to questions like these.