Laundered Truth Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

I was often told not to disturb rocks and of course no stone was ever left alone.
When not yet a teenager every rock in my path in the North African desert
met its fate under my lifting strength.

No lizard or white or black scorpion would stop my search for mysteries hidden beneath.
Even when wading ankle deep in what then were rivers to me I lifted flat shingles and looked for mysteries underneath.

It often required momentary waiting for the disturbed mud to clear and for the truth to appear in the scooting shape of a crawdad I pinched with forefingers quickly learning that truth could hurt when the crayfish pinchers would squeeze a squeal out of me.

Those were the times when beasts and stones spoke.