“Drifting” by Beth Thomas

WE WALKED TO THE FENCE and saw the birds there, pecking into the gourds that grew wild in that otherwise barren land of rock and shale and dusty bones. An arrowhead plucked up and held, a souvenir, a ghost. We did not stop to check it for blood. We did not speak, only walked, gathering memories, folding them and tucking them safe into back pockets.
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