The grey stone was smooth, rounded. Just the right size and heft that my index finger curled comfortably around it. Pressing the rest of it against my thumb.
A flick of the wrist.
It hops and skips, propelled across the sunlit skin of the water. Like a flying fish rock.
Gurgle-plop. Devoured whole.
The branches in the trees above whisper in the breeze. Swaying. That's the only other sound.
The air tastes like pine.
Eyes close. A new sound. The sound of my breath.
On the edge of the lake. Skipping rocks on the pond.