Climbing over the stile was like crossing a bridge to a different world. In the yard, St. Augustine grass grew in a neat green carpet. Here, the grass and flowers grew wild and free. Grasshoppers sprang up whenever Erica took a step, buzzing off to safer places. The warm breeze sighed through the tall grass. The earth was still damp from a recent rain, creating the scent of all green-growing things. Erica felt like she could stretch out her arms and fly on the sweet spring air.
      Still, she stepped carefully, mindful of her grandmother’s warning about snakes. Looking at the ground, she marveled at the variety of flowers. From the house, the field looked like a patchwork quilt of blue, orange, green, and pink. Up close, she saw many different kinds of flowers. She picked some bluebonnets, careful to break them off near the ground so she would have a long stem to go in the vase. Next to the bluebonnets she found a clump of lavender wild verbena. An arm’s length away grew some primroses, looking like pink-and-white cups. Orange and white Indian paintbrushes grew beside them.
      As Erica gathered flowers, the sun moved high overhead, and the tempera­ture rose with it. Finding a patch of shade under a mesquite tree, she sat with the flowers gathered on her lap. Her hair fell back as she gazed up at puffy clouds. No rain was in sight. Such a beautiful day, surrounded by sunshine and flowers.
      And mud and rocks, Erica realized, feeling dampness seep into the backside of her jeans. As she stood, a half-buried rock caught her eye. Its shiny gray surface looked like flint. When she dug it out of the ground, she saw it had a triangular shape. She remembered her dad’s stories of finding arrowheads here on the farm when he had been young. Could this be one? Yes, she’d found a real Indian arrow­head!