Crouched by the lakeside I grasp a small stone, same as all its neighbours: no jagged cliff-shorn shard of concussive weather to be sent pounding across the surface, but a smooth, round pebble, who traces a single arc then vanishes from sight – and the growing ring of ripples the only testament to its passing.
As I wander on, the waves of my lone effort are fading. Yet, as each passing stranger adds their own voice, every wave harmonizes, compounds upon its predecessors, and once still waters accelerate towards a resonating crescendo.
And my pebble rests below the surface, unaware of the exultation above, until wandering currents sweep it up, back onto the lakeside once more.
I arise from my idle contemplation, and pour myself in.