At the Lake House, We Skip Rocks
At the lake house, we skip flat rocks on flatter liquid surfaces, laugh when the wrist launch goes awry and the rocks skip upwards instead of outwards, kerplunk into the lake’s stomach. We lay flannel blankets on grass and pick at singular blades to see if the others notice one’s been plucked from the fused fabric of their field. We take the boat out and cut the motor. We can hear the slap of the lake’s tongue flicking against the hull. We sip champagne and rock gently, side to side. We tug woolen sweaters over shoulders when the sun dips behind the swaying reeds and the frogs start their throaty croaking. We toss kindling into the firepit and watch the steady swirl of the flames as they churn through our offerings. We press graham crackers into sandwiches and drip marshmallow goo onto fingers and chocolate onto tongues. We dip bare toes into the blackness of water, fishing for a change in temperature, a warmth. We whisper secrets to the trees, tell them we love them, that they’re different from the trees back home. Tell them to remember us when we leave.