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.