They scrawl, leave their mark on the boulders, the kids. They believe this is necessary, that the path they cut
through the dew is not sufficient.
Too green to appreciate that the paint
will flake or be washed clean
by torrents, decades. Even the substance
of stone will dwindle, particle by particle,
under the patient passage of what comes
next. If, but instead, they’d stopped
and sat, set their spray paint cans
on the grass and rested shoulder
to shoulder on the sold rock with their partner
in time, sighed over the algea green
in the sunlight, and heard the woosh
of their own blood rushing, would they
have come closer to discovering immortality
in this moment.