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All of a Summer's Afternoon.

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When my mother had turned her sad, slow heel back into childhood, she ran away for most

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of a summer's afternoon.

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Neighbors with pitying faces came to help my father search the Flint River bottoms where

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she had scratched up arrowheads for us and told such tales that Creeks were lurking behind

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every pine and oak for all our summers.

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They combed high grasses, skirting the beaver ponds where she once sat, shushing our very

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breath to quietness even the shyest beaver could trust.

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They found her in the farthest pasture, tugging feebly at her print dress, caught in a tangle

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of barbed wire.

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She stood with wide eyes, watching the Indians come from behind the trees.