SUBJECT>Skipping Stones(rev) POSTER>BJ EMAIL> DATE>1108009562 IP_ADDRESS>NET66-37-161-187.wave.hicv.net PASSWORD>aapQxMDWF2RXc PREVIOUS> NEXT> 83333 83336 IMAGE> LINKNAME> LINKURL>
I think of my estranged sons.
Kaplunk! Not flat enough. Wrong
trajectory. The wingless bird
plunges into mud, sinks deeper,
buried in black sludge, impregnable seed
surrounded by water. I fling a smooth
wedge of shale. My index finger curls
to its contours. Sharp edges imprint
crenellations in my skin; broken lines,
footprints, skirt the plain of my palm.
Centuries ago, alone, another father
roamed this lake, examined stones
for the weight and shape of an arrow,
hurled rejects into the water; scissors,
paper, rock, it bounced on water.
He flung another. Kaplunk! All day
he scoured the shore for a stone
that could fly. I came here forty
years ago, with my sons, hurtled stones
until one flew, taught the boys the proper
angle, rhythm, the balance between strength
and intuition, knowing they would fly
as they left my fingers.