Fucken ey.

The council have placed two rocks

on the foot path near the four-way

intersection, after that last

motorcar reunion in front of the

dairy-bakehouse-chip shop

conga line.

For now though, they dance

to sweet tunes and

swears and the spit of fry oil.

The rocks are new, by way of instillation,

and ancient, by way of the rest of us.

The mountain has been made

manageable by locals that frequent the

SaveMart and the Bottle-O and the pub,

sliding from each to each like

water off a duck’s back, like water off a

windscreen, like water in the eye that makes

the road and sky and horizon the same colour.

Every driver sees a path

like every hammer sees

a nail, and rocks like that become

mountains in moments to stop a

ram-raid symphony from striking up

in song;

to keep everyone from

moving, moving,

moving on down

the river.