He dressed in his best and colored his face, feathered arrows to fly straight and true. His wife laced love and jewels into his hair.
“They’ve stolen our corn and this winter we’ll starve,” he said, his eyes fixed on the child. His wife tasted love in the dripping of tears that they shared.
“They’ve stolen our souls from their graves.” She whispered and prayed.
“But don’t fear.” She hugged their child near while her man disappeared.
He was dead in his best and blood covered his face and his arrows were all gone away.
“Now they’ve stolen you too.”