221/365: Skipping Stones

I haven't skipped stones
under a midnight bright moon
in twenty-five years.
I'm due a fistful of rocks
and a cool shoreline at night.

Flap, flap, flap, flap, flap.
Flat stones sound like broad birds' wings
when the air is crisp.
In the dark, they echo back,
a bright, soft theft by moonrings.

#365poems at Schmutzie.com

The above poem is based on the Japanese tanka.