Where She Goes

— Harry Lafnear

She’s at it again,
Sinking stones
Without even a skip
For their thousand year trek
To the shore.

This smooth one goes with a ballad,
That sharp one follows a curse
Its flecks of green-silver flint
Catching her eye
Only as it burns through the air.

A slab of shale. A broken bolt.
A bottle. A brick. A bone.
All sent under, seeking to soothe
Something else lofted, lost.
and foundering on its own.

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