At the edge of the lake, the rocks
are deep gray and unusually flat,
perfect for skipping, even for a woman
known for her lack of skill in throwing.
There’s such freedom in breaking through
an old story. On a day when so much
seems fixed, beyond my control, I thrill
in skipping rocks again and again.
Sometimes it’s hard to see what is possible.
Once, these rocks were a layer of silt.
Once, this shore was the bottom of an ocean.
Once, there was a girl who was told
she couldn’t throw. Once there was a country
with citizens who forgot how to work together.
Whatever we will become is, even now,
being prepared inside us. All morning,
polished bits of shale fly from my hand to leap
across the surface of the lake. I watch them
find lift again, again, leaving rings
that sparkle in the sun, a momentary proof
of how sometimes the story we think
we know is not yet done with its changes.