Virgo 9. In a freshly plowed field, a man searching for arrowheads.
As he walked, gazing at the ground, he could hear in the creaking of tree branches the taps of artisans hitting the stone, chipping the flint. The cold wind and blue sky were hard and smooth as the stones.
Not so long ago they had been here. Indians, living by the river, making things out of the stones, tools and arrows. He bent to pick up an arrow whose point he saw sticking out of the rich dirt. It was perfect, unharmed. He would put it with the rest of his collection, in a shadowbox where all the arrows pointed in the same direction. And leave the others, still in the ground, to point in all different directions, to whatever times and places they pleased.