Sunday, late afternoon I sit on the beach and sift the sand for stones. Rocks smoothed by friction and the frigid waters of the big lake. It’s a hot day—too hot for this latitude, if we want to notice. I hold each stone for a few moments in the palm of my hand. Press my fingers around it, brush the sand away. I feel the heat of the day and think about the millions of years the stone has witnessed, and I can almost feel its heartbeat, but this is an illusion because it’s my heartbeat.
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Sunday, late afternoon I sit on the beach and sift the sand for stones.
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