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The Arrowhead
by
Mark McCauley
Based on my life as a boy in the rural Midwest, growing up
with a love for hunting arrowheads, and making that
first find as a little boy.
In darkness still, and solitude black,
It fell from a quiver on a hunter's back,
Buried by earth for generations to come,
It lay in silence, uncovered by none,
The birth of Christ, the fall of Rome,
The Pilgrims sail, it rests alone,
The West is won, the inhabitants defeated,
It testifies silent, of those mistreated,
The workmanship of rightful heirs,
Of soil that hides, what once was theirs,
Birth and death of countless faces,
Progress, inventions, rise and fall of nations,
Hidden in quiet witness of time,
Many seasons change, rain falls, minds resign,
Then young eyes of a boy delight,
Excitement, wonder, by chance at this site,
Two minds are joined by a relic old,
A stone long lost, small hands now hold.
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