A PEBBLE
The air is clean after a shower,
a pebble at the foot of a tree
also clean, speckled with
rain. Maybe I’ll sit
on it again, for half an hour only,
leaving time for birds, lizards, geckos,
and even squirrels to sit, and watch
the sea, as the pebble gets
rounder, the surface smooth
and glossy like an egg floating
on the fallen leaves
on the white sands. The pebble
is an egg
laid by the tree, waiting
to be hatched, I think. A branch,
tilted and hanging above,
like a young snake creeping
out of its egg,
swings its tiny legs as if
to kick the empty pebble
into the sea. To be hatched?