The pool rippled, Like an actor on the brink of the line, That would turn the play on its head. Or, the grave pause of an elder, Proffering wisdom to assembled children. Something was about to
happen. A small change, Perhaps a butterfly's wingbeat, A single arrow whisling over no-man's land, A small, spiralling change. The ripples turned to waves - And the waves crashed.
Rebounded, driving inwards with such force, The focus pulsating like an anxious heart. - The stone grew larger from the depths, Shook off the suspended silt from its shimmering hide,
It flew faster and faster, soaring upwards, The thick water parted for such a bullet, Bubbling ferociously until it burst - Still, like a pyroclastic surge the stone tore the liminal space. And the water in an instant fell silent,
The pool returned to its murky stillness, And the blank stone sat, Patiently, In the boy's outstretched palm.