Count 150 steps, an oddly tidy number,

leading from the bluff-top to beach,

steps which are warped and challenged

by time and ever-changing nature.

Man-made iron jetties, built to control

the uncontrollable, erosion, box the beach,

empty of others, courtesy of locale

and iffy stairway, into a narrow strand.

Proceed to skip a great number of smooth,

roundish, gray stones into the lake

from which they came, marvel at the skill,

bemoan the lack of skill, case dependent.

Stones skipped, settle into the sensory experience

which lake and beach afford, which 

an omniscient observer might deem soulful 

of a strolling beachcomber. Soul is not the issue,

perhaps it should be; rather—wellness,

timely doses of sea and shore, or lake and shore, 

case dependent. Senses engaged—

skip, stroll, contemplate, appreciate, wonder, 

until something within says enough, then climb 

the CL steps with one gray stone in pocket—

for sanity's sake—or two, the second to share.

Or none, let memory serve, and hope to return.