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Beating out the rhythm of earth’s downhill cadence,
a pebble rolls, imprinting grass and clay;
a drop, a splash into a brook, where he lies still,
is swept away; spit out on dry land once again;
he stares with dimpled eyes at my shoe’s level;
one sharp kick, he flies; he actually soars;
then lands he among kin fellows,
segregated like a seventh grade dance—
large pebbles on one side,
smaller on the other,
until a hand extended selects him for a special job
of sentry at attention, holding open a door
for the entrance of a refined young miss.
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