image borrowed from bing
Styx & Stones
The old man grimaced from lower back pains
that stabbed like a squad of stilettos
as he skipped a flat rock across the river
eight times, once for every decade
of his life;
eight rippled rings spreading out
from each other, wider and thinner
until they blended once more
with the moving surface of the water
and then quietly disappeared,
first the loud splash, impact, vibrance,
focus, identity, notoriety, and then
invisibility, down into the deep green
He squatted by the riverbank
for a long time, hunting, until
his strong big-knuckled hands
found another perfectly flat stone.
Rising up too quickly, excitedly,
it took a moment for his eyes to clear,
his nostrils to stop flaring,
his breath to slow down so that
he could hump the harmony,
harvest the heart of the moment.
He tilted slightly to the right
and then snapped the stone
from his thick shoulder
low to the ground and out
across the rushing water.
It hummed as it left his hand,
slicing the air effortlessly
before hitting the water and then
hopped like a sandstone bug,
skipping ten times in magnificent motion,
softly splashing yet barely touching
as it leaped across the rapids,
clear and precise, shining in the sun
for a moment before bouncing hard
onto the startled bank on the other side.
The old man’s heart was skipping too,
ten times lightly, and his smile smothered
his grizzled chin as he stepped boldly
into his next decade.
Posted over at dVerse Poets MTB
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