Problem Child

With October at my back,
I stand at the pond’s edge,
its banks blurred
with cattails and algae,
pond moss, withered summer grass.

A sluggish fish tips its head above
the water, and the surface
collapses into a rhythm of perfect circles.

I hold three smooth field stones in my hands,
turn them over,
worry the rough spots with my fingers.

Two barn swallows plunge
across the meadow, their
bellies flashing like quarters in the
waning sunlight.

Rotten acorns nod in the water,
unable to sink,
unable to float

I skip a stone– its ancient edges
slicing the air– watch
ripples pulse from the stone’s touch, watch
it jump
one
twothree,

and fall through the water–
a green negative,
then a shadow,
then nothing.

- Joanna Guldin