ARROWHEAD

Late summer. I took off my shoes
and waded ankle-deep into the water.
The Indians, I’d been told, called it
"Chiques." We just called it "the creek."
I stepped on something smooth, glanced
down and saw what looked like an arrowhead.
I picked it up and became at once

      a warrior, face painted, alert
      to every sound, moving with swift     
      stealthy step through the trees that
      surround the white settlement. I can
      hear the thud of hammers, the rasp
      of saws. Peering through the branches
      of a hemlock, I see men lifting logs
      to build their fort. Quickly I reach
      for the quiver on my back, fit the arrow
      onto my bow. I pull the string back
      to my ear and . . .

I hear my mother calling me for supper.