We followed the creek
a river, really
loud in its banks
louder still under
the amphitheater
of a bridge—
a striking hue
something primordial
less green than blue
but not fully either
runoff from a glacier
melting unseen
high in the mountain
above us
a supposition—
most of the foothills
blanketed by clouds.
We picked up rocks
and guessed wildly
at their provenance
Granite? Shale?
and threw them back
into the water
or ricocheted them
off boulders to skip
them far into the deep
and I wonder
when you are older
will you see these flights
as random chance
or as probabilities
unpredictable, but known—
and will either bring you
comfort?

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