Three Skips

I walked down to the water’s edge where the lake lay flat as glass. Half-buried in the wet gravel was a thin, perfectly rounded slate stone. Setting my red saw upright in the sand, I gripped the smooth slab between my stiff fingers, feeling its balance. I leaned low, planted my boots into the mud, and drew my arm back. With one forceful, sidearm flick, I sent the slate skimming inches above the surface. It skipped three sharp, rhythmic times across the water before dipping beneath the ripples. I retrieved my saw and watched the silver circles widen into the morning mist.