With sharp rock or stick, we etched circles
in the ground like symbols of eternity.
Marbles we placed inside—cat's eyes, agates,
bumblebees, clearies—gleamed like holy planets.

Lines we drew in the dirt, at which we pitched
marbles to determine order of play—
emblems of the path from birth to death.
The shooters—alchemists that multiplied

marble bag holdings, or caused them to vanish.
Knuckles in the dirt, we flicked shooters
with our thumbs, aiming for that sharp snap,
glass-to-glass, when we hit one out of the circle

confirming Newton's laws of motion.
Ragged jeans, knees painted with kiss stains
of Earth, we were too young to know back then—
everything about the game was sacred.

© by Dennis Trujillo.
Used with the author's permission.