With stars still in the clear black sky
I ascended to my old deer stand
then in silence watched the night pass by
as daylight detailed a scene once bland.

The sun revealed a hard frost world,
late November....maybe 'ninety five.
My condensed breath rose and curled.
A great morning to be alive.

And I watched bare trees slowly unfreeze
where Little River and Buckhorn Creek wed
while cold sunlight supplied a false warmth tease
and a fox squirrel left its snug night bed.

The sun turned trees into sundials
as it slowly moved toward a low noon.
Moving river chuckles, almost smiles.
Old heart beats its familiar tune.

Until it's time for morning hunt to end
so I stiffly climbed back down the tree
and old joints refused to pretend
that time would not catch up with me.

I slung my rifle on my shoulder
thoughts turned to a small ridge not far off
where pine saplings grow and old laps moulder.
Throat tickle explodes in a loud cough.

Soon I'm topping that small ridge
slowly walking seeking out deer sign
about a quarter mile above the bridge.
It seems the empty world is mine.

As the ridge dipped toward the river
I saw an area of white quartz stone
as a sudden wind blast made me shiver
and caused adjacent woods to moan.

Then my boot kicked a small stone
unbedding a white arrowhead
and as I stood out there alone
I thought of warriors long dead.

For I'd stumbled upon a quarry, old
worked, broken quartz lay all around
increased pulse warded off the cold.
Thoughts of the past muted all sound.

I picked up that ageless piece of stone
ran my thumb along its still sharp edge
and felt as if I weren't alone.
Like I stood at some temporal ledge.

How long ago it must have been
when some Cherokee sat here to knap
at stone shards over and again
in this place un-marked on any map.

I mused alone sans spirits felt
and almost heard drums far away from me
then slowly, painfully I knelt
in homage to those who used to be.

Then rose back up on popping knees
pocketed the point left here for me
and ,cold, in the late autumn breeze
felt the weight of unwritten history.

I've not been there for years gone now
as things go I'll likely not return.
Yet that spot still wrinkles my old brow
and makes my imagination burn.