a story aches to be told
usually when I find a prehistoric artifact,
I get a fragment of a glimpse of a person,
I can imagine the spear point crafted, used, lost,
the scraper, hand-axe, hammer-stone crafted, used, lost,
I can see the land and imagine why they were here,
a good place to pause, to camp, to craft a tool,
this month a story haltingly comes to me,
a whole collection of artifacts revealed by the rain,
very close to each other,
as if there for a purpose,
some hundreds to thousands of years ago,
they seem to be beyond just a toolbox of stone tools,
if these were a person’s implements,
why leave them in one place?
the quality of a complete spearpoint, exquisite,
scraper after scraper, perfectly fashioned,
as if each were the best in its class,
even flakes and chips striking,
it’s as if it’s a display, as in a museum,
but why?
a friend suggests gifts for a grave, a burial,
with tools to honor, to help in the next journey?
I know there is a story here
and I ache to hear it told.
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