Not lost

Thus we fling into successive siftings:
Tremulous on the edge
Gleaning, leaning, teetering,
Kissed by the wind,
Of a sudden, all in,
Down and bouncing down,
Among slag and slough,
Cornice and crevasse,
The paths of ancients,
Seeking, who knows,
Earth, place, rare arete.

And when the day is done our wayward pebble,
Adopts sun as tutor and softly settles,
With alike bunch in a friendly groove,
Only to, when prompted, launch anew!

When will our loose-footed friend,
Immensity's implacable pull forefend,
And giving up the day declare,

Advent to a single-state affair?

--
And for a similar tale, see this account of the The 25-Year Riverine Journey of a Wooden Boulder Carved out of a Felled 200-Year-Old Oak Tree.