Mother and Son at Creek with Small Dog
Red-haired boy in pith helmet: “Shard of pottery forgotten by time. Draw me mom, draw a drawing of me.” Mother perched at edge of creek looks up from her reading.
“Lookit this rock mom,” Walking through creek, stamps his feet on a sandbar, now wading over rocks into the sparkle and splash.
“Lookit mom, something man made, whaddya suppose it is?” Ducks under a fallen tree, roots exposed like spokes.
“Lookit this rock,” Throws it. Heavy splash, ripples percolate. Skips stone, 2 skips.
“See, isn’t this such a good idea mom? Lookit this skipping stone, it’s practically perfect in every way.” Skips 3 times, then bends to creek, comes up.
“Lookit this rock mom.”
Mother looks up says:
“It’s leopard skinned.”
“Way to be a poet. Hey! Got my first decent skip. Dog truffle hunts under Mother’s chair, nose sandy, snorts, digs. Splash, clack of two rocks, boy examining intently.
“It’s really light too . . . lookit this one.” Creek eddies to the left, ferns sprout from the embankment.
“Oh my god, lookit this mom, it’s quartz, it’s pink, are you writing this down? It’s pink. You’re such a writer.” Pause, boy ankle deep, contemplating rocks. Looks up.
“I’m glad a lot of people don’t come to this creek, there’d be less treasures.”