Trapped in the rocks

Walking along the Crescent Beach shore at high tide last week, I stopped often to look at the rocks. They've been dumped here to support the railway that runs just above the beach; I don't know where they originated. Not all from the same place, it seems, because they can be anything from soft sandstones to hard granite. They may be grey, black, brown, or white; solid colours or broken up with veins in green or white, spotted or striped, round or sharp-edged. Like live things, there are no two alike.

And I tried, I really tried, to see them as rocks with their own story, without adding layers from my own silly imagination on top. And then I looked at the photos at home, and the trapped rock dwellers showed up. Here are two of them. (Laurie saw them, too, without me pointing them out. So they must be real, right?)

Conglomerate, with woman wearing lipstick. (That's the real colour of the rock; I didn't add it.)

Textured sandstone, with long-nosed critter just leaving his bed.

Ok. 'Nuff silliness. I'll be sensible tomorrrow.