Pebbles

For hours her whole world was hunting for rocks at the banks of the shallow narrow river that runs through the canyon behind the house. On her knees, wrist deep in the icy current, she sifts through piles of polished stones, searching for the perfect little pebble. She slips the pebble safely in that pointed place in the pocket of her jeans. Down the path, she's conscious of the precious cargo, digging her hand down now and then. At home, she reaches in with her fingers, to pluck the pebble from her pocket and she places it on a shelf with the others. That evening, stretched under the covers, tucked and tight, and drifting, she dreams of skipping stones.