I take field trips. Hey, who doesn't? Who says I'm not a normal student? In fact, I take lots of field trips. My mother sends me to a small area in town where my assignment is to hang out for the day and then write a poem about my experience there. I might stay for ten minutes or ten hours – however long it takes me to come up with a poem. I take my notebook and do the poem right there. Today was a real challenge. The destination was "the stone piles". (My mother slips a card under my bedroom door with the field trip location.) She meant the old abandoned cement plant. There's the rickety dull green skeleton of the building and some rusting equipment and three piles of stones about as tall as me. They used to be much higher, I hear. People keep taking the stones for their gardens and stuff, and kids throw them. Well, here's how it went: FIELD TRIP: FOREVER AT THE STONE PILES How long have I been here? Not a clock in sight. What the heck – call it forever. The stone piles and me. It's one thing to walk past a pile of stones. It's another to sit with one forever. Do that and you begin to learn about things you thought you knew, like silence stillness smithereens. And now (can forever have a now?) I hear something – footsteps— no not steps— gravelsliding shlurping— footshlurps— and here he comes— navy peacoat, moss-green knit pullover cap with perky pom-pom moss-green tassel, slow, slumpy— if he were a Snow White dwarf he would be Droopy— round, puffy, whiskered face— donut dough with grey and black whiskers— shuffling, drooping toward me, sees me – or does he?— there's a stone pile silence and stillness in his eyes— says, croaks, "Are you looking for me?"— shuffles on by, doesn't wait for an answer. I want to call out, Hey!... Wait! but he's moving on, the back of him now shuffling...shuffling...green pom-pom bobbing bobbing bobbing.
