I envy sometimes that intense aimlessless of children, which prompts them, on a sunny and windless day, to overturn a bucket of chalk, find the family mallet, and experiment with the chalk’s friability. Just because one can draw or write with chalk doesn’t mean that one must only draw or write.
A person could, for example, pound it to bits. Especially the blue ones.
I came across the chalk and mallet tableau while walking with Jimmy in a neighborhood we don’t live in, although it’s still nearby. The children, whoever they are, had left all their playthings strewn on a little front lawn, the steps, the walkway. It seemed as though they would come back to them; the action was suspended, not completed.
Little artists, they were briefly interrupted from testing their material.
(Or so I want to think.)
leaf stitch word 
I remember doing this type of thing all the time growing up. This brings back a sudden memory: the house of a friend of the family (where we went a lot) was built in an area with a lot of slate. I remember the surprise and pleasure of discovering that I could write on certain little rocks by using other rocks. They were too small to write much on, but that wasn’t the point; the point was being able to do it.
Adult life does not have nearly enough of this kind of behavior in it.
When I think about things like this, it really makes me want to go back to school for my education degree so that I can teach kindergarten. I want to play, and see learning as playing again.