Seeing the reflection of the full moon
     in the rainfilled bedrock mortar holes
         where earliest California Indians
     ground acorns with circular grinding stones
And sensing how the full moon
     is like a mortar stone in the sky,
And then seeing the image of my face 
     looking up at me from the moonlit surface
         and sensing my own evanescence,
     how my face is like an acorn
         time grinds to fine dust,
And thinking thousands of years
     Indians ground acorns here
Singing their acorn songs
     gossiping and laughing
         or silent and musing
     listening to the pleasing sound
         of mortar stones grinding acorns
Or after a big storm
     gazing in the rainfilled holes
         at their reflections
     or seeing the full moon mirrored
Or deer hot from play
     dipping shy twilight muzzles
         in the cool pools
As blue oak and black oak
     ponderosa pine and digger pine
         incense cedar and manzanita
     grew and died in continuous
         ever-changing spots
     around the site.
Yet just as surely years from now
     faces staring here
After scooping out fallen leaves
     and feeling with future fingers
         the wet smooth tapering holes
     in the mossy lichen-covered rock
         contemplating themselves
     looking up at themselves
         contemplating these same thoughts
     will vanish,
While century after century the full moon
     continues to stare down
         and see its face
     unseen by anyone in the forest
Reflected in the rainfilled mortar holes
     from long ago.