The Pebbles

She sat there fingering the stones.
One...two, three, four and more.
Like little live beings rolling them in her cupped hand.
She sat there and told me,
"The stones have a great story to tell."
"What is that?" I asked.
"They once were mountains. To come down from the mountain is rough.
It breaks even the strongest. But here they are...precious, little ones."
I saw the mountain sitting in the palm of her hand.