Washing the Quartz

I scrambled down the eastern ridge as the morning sun broke over the rock face. At the base, a cold stream cuts through the gravel. I crouched on a flat river stone and plunged yesterday's quartz chunk straight into the rushing water. The dried clay and crust washed off into the current. Crystalline facets emerged beneath the grit, clear and sharp. I rubbed the last stubborn dirt pocket clean with my spiked glove. The mineral is pure, dense, and unyielding. It sits drying on the warm boulder beside me.