Just a Rock

Sitting next to the lake, I pick up the nearest rock. It’s brown, speckled black, Tinted red by the stream. Layered and flat, But a bit too large to skip. It’s sharp on one side, Rounded on the other, Like a guitar pick. It’s a bit flatter on one side, And a bit closer to its original brown. Must’ve been the side under the ground. The black specks look a bit like glitter now. One side, the browner one, Is covered in dirt. I wipe it off on my shirt. I could stare at this for hours, but I don’t have the time, And eventually, I conclude that it is, indeed, A rock. I toss it into the water and get up. Grabbing my backpack, I set off again. Police sirens scream in the distance.