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[TranquillityBase]

I tried rewriting the original until I hated it.  I realized it was a small part of a bigger story.  This is the result.  






Cutting a trail uphill through cedar
towards a grove of Spanish oak
I sat upon the ground to rest,
and prised up a stone from the ground between my knees.
Wiping away the dried caliche,
I held a an unfinished stone-age tool,
last held by a man 400 or 4000 years ago,
uncovered by erosion and my weariness
under the August sun.

Though I’d been cutting these trails for years,
and picked up many pieces,
never was there one so clearly the work of a man,
from then on,
I found these unfinished points on every walk,
as though the finding of the first
had allowed the rest to reveal themselves.

The fragments appear like crude stone fish
brownish gray glass, a few rare albinos,
tails mostly, but a few broken off points,
until I finally found a perfect arrowhead,
tiny, the size of a dime, good for small game’
the only one I ever lost.

Since then, the magic is gone from my eyes,
now I walk the trails and find nothing.
I guess the losing of the perfect one
has sent the rest back into hiding.