Winter solstice night. The city’s main intersection dark and silent. At the centre of the crossroad a figure stands, turning in place, a crossing guard? She wears a short red and white skirt, Matching jacket. Her arms are outstretched, shoulder height, as she turns. Is she directing? You see no traffic. You see no pedestrians. Only she and you and stones. Scattered in the intersection, head-sized ovoids lie, glowing, luminescent, pulsating, potentiated with their own interior light. pale blue and white, moon faces. To the south, heaps of smaller stones lie on the road and sidewalks. Overwhelming abundance: piles of thousands of glimmering, light-filled stones. Some like old-fashioned, hard candies— transparent reds and greens or clear, crystalline— discs, solid waves, lozenges, One hand-sized glow, you choose, holds, within it, the outline of a man’s bearded face, familiar. In the centre of another, clear greenish glimmer, the flat simple form of a Douglas fir. Are these inscriptions to convey a message, an understanding, a memory, a knowing from a time past, present or future? The streets are dark and empty of all but you, the mysterious, turning figure, and the stones. Darkest night of the year. You linger among the stones. You ask, What action is required? They are pulsing with light, charged, ready to share their stories and songs. You hear whisperings, murmurings, secrets of aeons waiting to be heard, decoded and shared.