FLINTKNAPPING

When young, I connected arrowheads with intention. One I found was brown and showed dried blood in the form of another color along a carved appearing edge. Weighing more than one might think, the piece was poised to enter flight when sprung from a taut bow. I saved that flint in a drawer with socks and softer things. Quite apart from the idea of protection. I had no arrows, I had no bow. I liked to look at the arrowhead as if it glowed. Who made you? I wanted to know, but privately, as I walked across the snow.