Dew shines on morning autumn leaves
sending spears of colors all around.
Though not quite cold enough to freeze,
ere long frost flowers will abound.

A slight pause in the wet weeds
flushes a woodcock from its night's rest.
It flutters off to meet its needs
in this season I like best.

I look down on this well worn trail
and spot an old stone arrowhead
its quartz the purest white and pale
though marred a bit by the clay's red.

I pick it up in calloused hand
and consider being here
in this remote forested land
where Cherokee once hunted deer.

Was this point lost in a hunt
or simply lost as some things are?
Perhaps it had become too blunt
and tossed as becoming subpar.

On pocketing it, the world seems changed.
As if I'm in another time.
Might this find have been prearranged
to make me pen this little rhyme?