ON FAWN ISLAND IN RAINY LAKE, the low evening sun lights up a boulder (glacial erratic) covered with rock tripe and shield lichens. Boulders are fine things. Steady. Still. Quiet. Seldom unruly or obnoxious or self-aggrandizing. They have seen much with their unwavering gaze. The Anishinabe and First Nations. Voyageurs and explorers. Loggers and rafts of millions of board-feet of white pine. Would-be impresarios and empire-builders. Gold seekers. Resorters. Fishermen. Island-dwellers and cup-a-sugar borrowers. Dock-sitters and sunset-watchers. It’s a good thing to be a boulder and see it all. And be a part of it all.