Arrowhead

A pale boy knee-deep in pale cornflowers Rousedly pokes and pries at the dark loam, Unearthing an old arrowhead: rough-hewn, Flecked with iridescence, color of moon. He spits, swabs it clean, then leaves the bower, The stone rubbing his thigh on the trek home. Some magic in that rubbing; languid clouds Of youth part to reveal a long-past scene. Sweating, swarthy men search the sun-baked ground For hoofed imprints; their ears await the sound. Fresh tracks are spotted, the hunt reavowed. In the corn field, his teetering rack seen. Acrid kinnikinnick smoke drifts above The tasseled tops of the corn stalks as they Wait. Toward eve, a crow's flight signals the end. The silky stigmas brush skin as they bend Over the felled stag. A small ring of mauve Has spread round the wound. They eat well today. The boy skirts a budding cherry orchard, Then tramps through a dense wood dappled with moss Before coming out onto paved Talbot Road, Which leads to his awaiting mom and mode. Emptying pockets once in his manicured yard, He is unsurprised to learn the stone is lost.