Drawn to Stone

Stone holds color differently from any other building surface I know. In certain light, it doesn't reflect but seems to breathe light, as if from whatever is within. In the afternoon, it butters and burns, but in the morning it flickers a bit, like a distant candle flame, only dimly seen. And the seams where stone and mortar and stone meet bulge like an old man's still strong hands, with ropey veins. 

I have always had a thing for stone, from the retaining wall lining the steps between driveway and front door of my childhood home, to the Tudor houses of the neighborhood down the hill, to the lodge chimney of a beloved summer camp, to the view from Exeter College's Fellows' Garden enjoyed on a Sunday morning with bells ringing from chapels and churches all round, to this view glimpsed on a walk from library to car just this morning.

Today, I heard a symphony of stone.