The Art of Skipping Stones

Where the glassy surface reflects the sky,

they hear the call

Echoing through the ages

and amplified by chiseled cliffs,

it catches their hearts, and,

compelled by some force of joy stronger than them,

they stoop to gather the flattest stones

Unknowingly, they join in a dance

passed from one generation to the next the world over,

choreographed with precision by the

very first father who happened upon a

serene stream with son by his side

Poised parallel to the earth,

stone cradled snugly between thumb and forefinger,

his arm winds back and, with a burst,

he lets it fly –

One – two – three – four –

it ricochets across the watery mirror

like the feet of a chickadee

tripping across a field fresh with snow

A sheen of admiration in their eyes,

his sons add their own ripples to the stream,

emulating and transposing their father’s gestures

to make his dance their own,

sunning themselves in the rays of approval

flowing from his lips and grin

In the glistening light, they dance on,

each boy striving to surpass himself and his brothers

in his climb toward manhood

Their father knows well this ladder’s rungs

and, while each stone he flings points them toward the top,

his love shows them they are already enough

Safe to dare and free to fail,

young boys become men on the riverbank,

hearts rebounding

as they stand beloved,

apprentices in the art of skipping stones

Rennes, France

February 23, 2020

(inspired by a scene on the banks of the Ardèche in Labeaume on February 20)