I am sharp.
A sharpness so sharp a surgeon could use me still.
The first to be used after waiting for million upon million of years.
Then struck and like a stone in a pond ripples spread and I flake.
A few touches here and there I am shaped for the job.
To pierce the hide of fleeing deer, arrow straight, glued and tied to wooden shafts.
Or scrape clean fat from skin, to bore holes for sinew, so that winter cannot kill.
To chop and cut and shape a dwelling.
Discarded when job is done I wait for a short time - a few thousand years.
A river frees me, a sharp eye is caught by a glint, a hand once more caresses my skin.
Blood is spilt once more.
I am sharp.
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