How To Skip Rocks

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.

     One.  

     Two.  

     Three.  

     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.