Arrowheads** Poem by Neil Young

The open box you show me holds
A neat display of arrowheads.
‘Some surfaced in the clearing after rain, ’
You say, in your cool, Cajun drawl.
Keen-eyed, you’d pick them up,
Later, wash them underneath the
Faucet like crops from an allotment;
Fossilised produce not for eating.

Now, I study contoured shapes,
My thumb exploring ancient stone.
I warm one gently in my hand.
‘These prehistoric things have names, ’
you add, reciting litanies of form,
Fingers indicating which
Is which… ‘That one there’s a Bird Point,
That’s a Marshall, Montell, Plainview.

I love this Split Tail… Look! A Clovis…’
I’m picturing their makers’ hands,
Dark coffee coloured fingers; natives
Lost to time. But I’m no psychic
Stirring some imagined life
In them, drawing power from
The past. I’m just a stitch in time,
Drinking ‘Bud’ here with my friend.

Louisianan heat drips slow
Like Time. I sweat beside your cabin
In the woods. I turn to find
A hummingbird hovering nearby;
His long beak spearing water from
A feeder dangling near the eaves.
His frail wings beating fast, translucent
In the evening’s humid grip.