Enchanted Rock is a very large igneous intrusion extending deep in the earth's crust.
There are places on this Earth that are themselves holy, for lack of a better word. Their special quality is difficult to communicate to others, even if those to whom you speak have been there. Enchanted Rock is a batholith that is more than a billion years old. A billion years is time enough for starts to form, to die and to gather and form planets, and for those planets to form life.
Rich in the subtleties of the earth
the pith of viper
the butter of nut
the fruit of seed
and though standing in the plain far from the sea
the ocean current
and though mineral
the clinging of a child
the scramble of a suckling littler
the eyes of Mesmer
the nails of de Sade
and though earthbound
the drift of the sun's arising
the idles of mornings and twilight
the harrowing of the moon.
The Rock should be experienced at least once in the full heat of July. Take no food or water. Pretend that you are going to a 'come as you are' party. Ignore, if you can, the State Park facilities. Walk far enough out so that you cannot your car.
One hundred and five degrees
Acorns pop open now and then
The creek is a shimmering trickle
of small pebbles and sand.
High upon the rock stands an oak in wind
defying the jewel of July.
The stag is at bay in the shade
where ticks and chiggers rule.
Only humans and small rodents scamper on stone.
Theirs is the quick dash
and the gathering along the way.
Rare grasses thrive along the droplet pools;
and rarer shrimp bunch there, a full cycle of life
in one summer.
As I was saying, Enchanted Rock is a batholith. Just last century one could probably still hear a slither of silence or the wild burro's bray. Native Americans came to this moment in space. It is no wonder that people still travel to see and to feel the rock. That they would travel into the middle of nowhere is a testimony to the ancient and primal urges that still flow in our blood. They still seek the rhythm of the moon and of the earth.
High upon the holy hill where the oak grips the granite
Each night star-shade and earth-shine conjoin
Deer and summer moss feed
To form the gravity's tide
the circle of fire that suns
the vapor of air that rains
the living of earth that die
Among the ruins of a billion years
storm-cut, lichen-colored, wind-burned
Rises the Ancient of Rock.