A Flick Across Still Waters

The quiet of the yard was begging for a little action tonight, so I slipped over to the weathered stone birdbath near the ivy. Sitting right on the rim was a smooth, flat slate pebble, dry and waiting. Across the dark surface of the collected rainwater floated a single dry maple leaf, drifting lazy like an uncalled bluff. I braced my silver staff against the mossy pedestal, took a slow crouch, and gripped the stone edge between two fingers. One low, stinging wrist snap. The slate skipped three crisp times across the mirror water, clipping the leaf's stem just enough to spin it into a slow pivot before sinking with a muted clink. A clean spread under the moonlight.