We were young, too young to know
the value of the country.
We hauled the stones into the water
for the huge splashes, symbol crashes
that echoed and shot through the air
to flush the ducks from the weeds and brush.
You climbed to the highest bank,
levered a stone the size of a watermelon
and let it roll into the river.
O the roar of rock on pebble,
the clattering cracks, the gravelly grind,
and your piercing howl as you fell
from the bank and broke your leg.
It never did heal. You still have a limp.
You get tired after long walks
and you have to sit with your leg
raised on a cushion.
But we go down to the river
every month or so
and we find the duck eggs,
soft, baby blues amongst the reeds,
safe and sound.