Stone Sinker

Flat gray stone.

Wrist flick. Remembered

the easy glide, the light skip.

Now, just a clumsy

turn. It spins,

not out, but down.

A splash. Mud on my jeans.

My niece watches,

her small face

a small frown.

The pond's surface

swallows the arc.

The practiced hand,

a dull sound.