flint

Hand in hand we crossed the road, and the steep ditch to step lightly onto the newly tilled field. Black earth turn brown in the warm spring sun. Walking at my father’s side, eyes on the ground scanning back and forth, examining each mound of dirt. Looking for the telltale rounded shape of a bead, the long cylinder of a broken pipe, a discarded arrowhead. Tiny fragments of history, laying in the drying dirt in freshly tilled field. An edge of flint, glinting dully in the morning sun. Small hands digging in soft dirt. Muddy footprints, laughter, a treasure found.



(a memory from when I was small)