As the farmer plows his field,
I kneel to harvest ancient yields.

One I pick and start to think:
Whose hands milled this stone
to shape the weapon’s tip?
What fingers drew the bow
and plucked the cracking hit?

Did errant flight bring it to this site?
Or did a deer’s heart seize the blow
to ease a family’s hungered fear? 

When I cup the arrow’s point,
I become the finder—
the native carver and the deer.
I am history’s heir.
I become the focused hunter.
I become his stony stare.