Words from the night

I have no idea why but I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about the craftsmen-hunters who made arrow heads from flint, and it made me wonder about  the patience and the skill to work like that. Did they work alone or together, murmuring as they chipped and clipped the hard stone?

 

 

 

 

We found them

thin as ice flaked from a glacier

flint

heart shaped arrowheads.

I forget the name of the place

North, over the  causeway

into a troubled land.

Slender as desire

but cold and hard

violence tipped and tied

to the shaft

tight, neat.

So much care

the brow furrowed

hands seamed

feet set easy on a carpet of splinters.