A simple stone
in the palm of her hand.

Grey speckled
black and silver.
Perfect round corners.
She runs her fingers
over the top:
it’s smooth,

She weighs it in her right hand,
then shuffles it to her left.

It’s small,
but heavy.
A weighty presence,
not a burden,

she thinks.


The glassy lake stands still.
Time falters into silence.


or never.


It’s all in the wrist,
she remembers,
and with a flick!
the stone flies from her hand.

Bounce once,
bounce twice…
a moment’s pause, and then!
Bounce thrice!

(Away across the water,
she watches it go
until the lake claims it
and drags it below.)