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.