Mirror images like a funhouse mirror, one part truth, one part imagination.

The stones have weathered, each different from its companion.

It stands alone, the trendsetter that rears its head proudly, feeling the admiring looks that rest upon it.

And choirs of angels still resound solemnly among the tired stones.

What miracle is wrought when heavy metal is given wings to escape the gravity below?

The streaks of clouds make new pathways in the sky.

The old worn bones slowly melt into dust underneath the shade of the spreading tree, some remembered, most forgotten except by those that lie around them.

It pauses to study its reflection then drifts on as serene clouds are wont to do.