I plucked a

cool grey stone

from the stream's sleepy bed.



A perfect stone-skipping stone—

flat and smooth—

good for at least five skips, I guessed.



I turned it over in my palm,

ran my thumb around

its polished contours.



I imagined its journey—

dislodged from river's bottom,

heaved, propelled, smashed by punishing torrents.



Until somehow, its once-jagged edges now rounded,

it emerged downstream with a new purpose:

defining and shaping the water.



Even the strongest gales

and most raging rapids

have survivors.



From space, the Colorado River

looks like a 1,400 mile scar,

but it also carved the Grand Canyon.