Natives lived in those caves out behind the farmhouse, their artifacts trickle out with each new generation exploring the cool dark, carrying big sticks & fierce imaginations on their bear hunts.
Timid beasts, those black bears, bold only for the brief run of salmon berry down along the creek.
One winter the snow melted and then froze again, leaving a face on the side of the cliff. Was it a woman? Did she lay down those arrowheads and lay, like I did, across those great round rocks, the moss a foot deep that sweet smell only the way moss can smell and dream of being fierce?