The Dancing Stones

The stone field lies in chaos in the bare,
Near-freezing, dry, sunlit Antarctic air.
But as the summer ends, the freezing cold
Of night and warmth of day slowly unfold
Their fingers so that they can play a tune
Upon the water, melt to ice, the moon
Inviting all the happy stones to dance
In days and weeks from sizes spread by chance
To loops and circles, order brought to life
By stones of different sizes and the strife
Of freeze and thaw, of stretching, pushing rocks
Around as though they're dancing cranes in flocks
That love to dosado and prominade
Themselves into an order that seems odd
To those who think all order must be made
Exclusively through consciousness that played
The chaos into order. Their white bones
Will not outlast the always-dancing stones.