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.
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