Backstage

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Backstage

I’ve hurled a stone or two at slender pine-
trees, my boyhood worth determinate on hearing
the throaty pop of pebble on wooden spine. 
The rocks that looked like arrow-heads, edging 
along the corner of the gravel path,
were best—a pointer-knuckle hooked around
the edge, a calloused thumb for the backstage task 
of balance.
At twelve I learned the beauty in
supporting roles: the thumb around the smooth-
edge of the rock, the sapling wedged between
the crowded boughs, the brown-eyed boy on the path 
who picks a hand-sized stone to cock and fling, 
cracking against the tree, adding a note 
to the world's symphony
                  it cannot do without.      

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