The beauty of kicking a pebble down the street

The little pebble ricocheted off his foot, the cracks – the irregularities in the asphalt.
Leading their gazes in unison, darting elipleptic.
In contrast and rhythmic are the sounds of steps, step, step,
Under frantic eyes.
It happens, from time to time,
A foot steps out of line –
To corral a loose pebble. I remember one time in particular when I pounced on it.
How odd that she burst out laughing at something not funny at all?
Of course I smiled and laughed too.
As the pebble ducked into the asphalt.

Stare at the pebble for a long time and laugh.
It is a pebble.
It is a nut.
It is a petrified bit of fruit.
And all it does is move.
So why laugh?

Their eyes ignore the mundane pebble.
Keep it bouncing at all costs.
In the totality of things, there lies the beauty of kicking a pebble down the street.
The jutting after-images of lights and lines – draw it to frame it, then stare at it on your wall. Look deeply since the beauty must be captured in those lines.
And maybe the lines must flow.

She shook her head.
No. She laughed so her head shook.
The beauty is not in the pebble and cannot stick to any wall.
And then she kicked it, he refrained, another step, she kicked it again, he kicked it back.
But really it might as well be air.