Flycatcher

Alice Walks Along the Chattahoochee

There are miles left. A man floats
lazy on a blue inner-tube past her,
raises his beer bottle and nods.
In the shallow brown pool at her feet,
a tadpole with back legs. She picks up
a small river pebble, orange-flecked
and smooth, and runs her fingers over it,
puts it in her mouth and tastes the dirt
and all of its ridges and creases. Now.
The stone rolls easy off her fingers,
arcs high above her and enters into the water
too far away to make a sound.