Three Clean Skips

I slipped out through the front gate and trotted down the sunny sidewalk straight to the neighborhood park pond, done with being cooped up indoors. Resting on the sandy bank was a wafer-thin, smooth slate pebble, flat and dry. Naturally, I picked my target. Bracing my boots against the damp gravel, I hauled the slate disc up with both hands, shifted my weight, and whipped it forward in a fierce, low sidearm snap. The stone skipped across the glassy surface—one, two, three sharp taps—sending silver ripples racing clean across the water. A flawless trajectory, exactly where I aimed.