02-14-2021, 12:35 AM
Another edit and a title:
The Castaways
Cutting a trail uphill through cedar
towards a grove of Spanish oak
I sat upon the ground to rest,
idly pried up a chunk of flint.
Wiping away the dried caliche,
I held 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 one so clearly the work of a man,
from that day on,
I found these unfinished points on every walk,
as though finding the first
allowed the rest to reveal themselves.
Crude stone fish
cut from brownish gray glass, a few rare albinos,
tails mostly, but a few broken off points,
until I 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,
I walk the trails and find nothing.
I guess my losing the perfect one
has sent the rest back into hiding.
The Castaways
Cutting a trail uphill through cedar
towards a grove of Spanish oak
I sat upon the ground to rest,
idly pried up a chunk of flint.
Wiping away the dried caliche,
I held 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 one so clearly the work of a man,
from that day on,
I found these unfinished points on every walk,
as though finding the first
allowed the rest to reveal themselves.
Crude stone fish
cut from brownish gray glass, a few rare albinos,
tails mostly, but a few broken off points,
until I 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,
I walk the trails and find nothing.
I guess my losing the perfect one
has sent the rest back into hiding.