The small stone tumbled haphazardly down the side of the mountain, bouncing along the shale with a "pok pok pok" as he fell. By the time the little rock had landed in a grassy outcropping several hundred feet below, he was very confused. He was also up-side down, though he barely noticed. He was a stone after all. Perhaps in a few hundred years he could sort out what had happened just then, but time moves slowly when you're a rock, so he had plenty of time to spare.
His new surroundings were quite pleasant. The grass on which he lay was tender and smelled like summer. A battered tree further up the outcropping shaded him from the heat of the mid-day sun. Wildflowers grew nearby, scattered about like polka dots against the scrub. And beyond the outcrop was a view of the valley below, both beautiful and serene. There was a gentle breeze now, and the sound of the wind was pleasing had he the ears to hear it.
Being made of stone, the little rock knew none of this, for he had not the facilities to hear or feel or smell or see.
But he did sense that he was in a better place, and so the small stone was content.
Sometimes I envy the life of rocks.