At last, the boy reached the rock outcropping.
He’d followed the river for miles to find
this natural crossing. And there, stopping
at water’s edge, the white-tailed buck—eyes blind
to his breechclothed frame among bushes—stepped
into the shallow current. Soon the herd
appeared. The young Quapaw’s tattooed arm swept
sweat from his shaved head. He whispered the word
t’a. Steadied his bow, and let go. Soon he
would mount fur carcass on his dog travois.
Build a fire, pray for the deer’s soul, his plea
to Wakontah for balance in life. Joy
would rush through him when his father shouted
Hawé! Praised a son he never doubted.
Roger Armbrust
June 22, 2008
