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.
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