Poetry By
John Hayes
Published on: 9/22/2014
Skipping Stones
Rain finally stops after two dreary days. Megan dashes out the door squishes dark mud between her toes squashes a skeeter sucking on her arm. She follows the twisty path uphill to Sloan's Pond North wind breezing on her thighs Her great toe stubs on a stone's smooth edge. It's a skipper. She doesn't find many up here anymore. She's skipped most to the bottom of the pond. Squatting by the water's edge Megan carefully washes the smoothness free of mud dries the stone on her gingham dress stores the prize in the fork of her favorite pine. She figures in two days when the pond water stills she'll skip the stone clear across the pond. She'll beat her old ten skip record. Get twelve from this stone, sure as sin. Her Mama says pond water ain't fit for people drinking or swimming neither cause they'd get water in their lungs but Megan knows wouldn't hurt none, as long as she keeps her mouth tight shut, to explore along the bottom one day and find herself a few sunk skipping stones. Couldn't hurt none at all.
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