sonnet to a boulder

Sonnet to a Boulder.

This big boulder in the middle of the field,
puzzles me, why is it there on its own and
not with its brother further down the vale?
It must be a sandstone has many holes, but
No mice live there, I thought it would have
been perfect home for furry creatures, but
crossing the field, too fraught; beady eyes
and wings everywhere, not missing a thing.
Guess time isn’t important for a boulder it’s
summer now and it is hot to the touch but
there will be no rain before October, a few
months is no more than waiting for a train
that’s five minutes late. It has nothing to say,
but it does whistle when the wind blows.