People assume this painting originates in Yosemite; but huge erratic boulders are found in many spots in the Sierra. On a hushed, slate gray day at Grouse Meadow I took a rest and ate lunch in the company of this boulder. I got to thinking about all the seasons this rock has endured, ever so slowly changed by time. How and when did it get to this spot? That tree next to it has had a long life, but just a blink of an eye to the rock. And now a new sapling sprouts... If this boulder could speak to us, what tales would it tell?