My black biro scratches across the paper: large, poorly-shaped letters trying to contain my thoughts, intangible as smoke. If you want to read about my small stones practice, check out my first small stones post.

The noise of the builder’s pneumatic drill ruptures the morning silence, its juddering repetitions echoing across a sky empty of birds. If you want to read about my small stones practice, check out my first small stones post.

Vapours from my hot tea rise up from my vermilion mug; lit by the morning sun they dance in and out of visibility. If you want to read about my small stones practice, check out my first small stones post.

A three quarter harvest moon hangs low in the night sky, thin dark clouds veiling and unveiling its luminous form. If you want to read about my small stones practice, check out my first small stones post.

Sycamore branches reach out to the top deck of the passing bus, their four-point leaves caressing the window panes. If you want to read about my small stones practice, check out my first small stones post.