The boys are content to play by the river
all afternoon,
noticing only one cloud in the Colorado, blue sky,
scouting the flat, thin rocks perfect for skipping.
Oh, the expectation when the oldest winds up,
his mind willing that stone to dip up and down out of the cold water.
It skips twice, and his head is down again, looking for another.
His younger brother throws some, collects others in pockets and plastic baggies.
Pounds of extra luggage to carry home, to step over as they boys climb into the car,
muddy shoes dangling over car seats,
over kidnapped rocks making their way 1,400 miles to a new home.
The baby is wet with mud and will go home in only a diaper,
eyes fluttering shut before we turn onto the main road.
I sit at the edge of the water.
Pick up stones, too. Stack them into piles that never quite balance, topple quickly.
Look for the ones whose colors are revealed only under the running water.
Imagine if they’ve ever been touched by human hands before, and
where they’ve fallen from, where they will go when I drop them,
and change their trajectory – their purpose – forever.
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