Member-only story
Narrative Poem Incorporating Six Words
Opal — chert — rough — soft — swim — hike
My partner and I hike along the path through old-growth cedars and bracken fern to the bottle-green pools of Opal Creek. It’s a hot day — just right for a swim.
The air is soft. The basalt is smooth, dark, and warm. He arranges his body comfortably on the rocks, absorbing heat like a large, sturdy reptile.
I wade in small circles, feeling the rough gravelly bottom with my toes. My mind moves in small circles, too, fixating on this question:
What gives these pools their bottle-green color? Is it the surrounding forest, reflected in the swirling surface? Is it bits of flotsam and jetsam ground by the rushing water into a powdery green tea, a watery botanical tincture?
My hand journeys of its own accord, beneath the surface, past my bare white leg. I touch the stones beneath my feet. I feel the sharp edge, the blade, really, of a rock that is not sandstone or basalt.
I grasp the edge and pull it slowly to the surface. It is deep green, and smooth. Not heavy, but dense. Chert, I suddenly remember from geology class. It looks like a stone that would make a good arrowhead,
But I’ve heard it flakes unpredictably, and so requires considerable skill.
