Vanishing Point

Grandfather and I are hurling stones

into Brandy Bay. Round for round,

he beats my distance. Shortsighted,

I don’t even see his shot hit the water.

It’s all in the wind-up, he says mid-spin.

On release, I worry for him. What if he sinks

some passing ship? Could one good pitch

turn the Earth and strike the back of my head?

You’re not watching, he says. I give him

my full attention: casting back,

he drops the stone behind his ear

and, with neat flair, releases nothing.

Now, I’m casting. He’s under a stone.

But as I weigh one pebble against another,

something zips past my sightline

and breaks the sea’s polished lens.