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I walk among dark shapes along this bank in the coolly fading afternoon, the unbroken language of water staying with me. I kneel and see the gray light of the evening, too heavy to allow my dark reflection, here where the current runs against itself, turned by some obstruction in the shallows, flowing into a perfect moss-grown laver. Among the rounded sand stones a shape fastens itself in my sight. In the strange refraction in hand becomes another hand, reaching into another stream, in a place grown black and silent with the past. My hand brings back the stone, and I am kin to the Creek hunter who waded the stream all day, searching for a flint of good dimension, my hands are one with those that chipped and knapped the stone into perfection, honed the point and fastened the shaft with a length of sinew or thew, I am he who moved against the wind, stepping ahead of my scent, drawing the bowstring to my cheek, my eye taking sight from the shaft. The cold of the small stone seeps into my palm. Some cord in me snaps tight, unbends the curve of my imagining. Though I know I have not passed one night beneath the stars or walked these hills in darkness, though I feel no respect for cold, I would know the burning of those pure lights, feel my own warm shape against the world and follow the shaft's far shadow into the forest.
Hunting in Twilight
David Scott Ward
